Life as a Metaphor

2011-05-18T16:00:00.000-07:00

I was talking with a friend today and told her how, if I was ever in really good health, I wold like to run for school board. So in addition to adding that to my 10 year plan visualization list that are supposed to put my thoughts into the universe so they come true (not so sure about that, but low effort, so why not) I'd thought I'd start my campaign in this blog. I'm REALLY trying hard on this visualization thing after all.

Okay, so if I were to run for school board, here's my platform, along with maybe catchy slogans.

Quality. Honesty, Reality.

I think we're lacking in all three, not just in ACPS, but in the public schools in general. However, since I have (at least currently) no desire to take Arne Duncan's job, I'll stay local in my focus and ambitions.

What does quality mean? It means quality teaching and quality teachers. Nice little slogan, doesn't say much. So here's what it's trying to say. I've heard more than a few stories about teachers transferring out of "bad" schools to better schools, and even more about how hard it is to get a job in these "better" schools. Also, it seems there are a lot of new teachers and turnaround in the lower performing schools (often labeled bad). Why is this happening? Well, much of it has to do with the "reality" part of the issue, but a lot of the teachers wanting to be at the better schools is because, a) they're less challenging in a number of ways and b) because they can apply for open positions in other schools in the system. I remember one teacher who was quite good who quit because her position had been changed -- she was full time in one school, but because of, presumably, budget cuts and/or system needs, was told that she needed to split her time between two schools. She didn't like the change, so she left. I'm not scapegoating her -- she may have had very good reasons why splitting her time was too much for her - gas costs, stress, fear of change, whatever. However, what was notable about this was her anger at the school system changing her job. I hate when politicians badmouth teachers because their jobs are so easy, that private jobs are so much harder, but one this that you do have to put up with in almost all jobs (including teaching jobs in other districts) is that your boss, whoever that is, gets to decide what your work assignment is and where you do it

It seems to me that at ACPS, it's largely decided by the teachers where they teach and they are given little motivation to move, especially to a more challenging position. Another case, two teachers in my daughter's school, which is considered a "good" school, transferred from a "bad" school. So the bad school lost two experienced, presumably decent teachers. How does that help a struggling school get better?

When I chose to send my daughter to this "better" school, mainly because I didn't want her going to the local school that had a modified calendar, I was given the hairy eyeball for abandoning the local school, which was definitely struggling more than the one I chose. I felt guilty, and I expected to feel guilty, but I was doing what was appropriate for my child (see "honesty" and especially "reality"). If I was given such a hard time leaving the school, why aren't the teachers? And I don't want individual teachers to feel guilty or to suffer, but something is systemically wrong if teachers are allowed to jump off a sinking ship -- i.e. transfer jobs to an easier school Instead, a newer or mediocre teacher should have been given the slot. Not to share the suffering -- definitely not in favor of the either/or, your kids doesn't deserve as much attention because they come from a better economic background. No, to share the skill, expertise, and wisdom of teachers.

Yes, some of the reason that certain schools are "better" than others is they're dealing with kids who are less challenging -- more speak English, have parents with time and ability to be involved, don't have to deal with a stressful home situation. But I'd argue that part of the reason is because they have more skilled and experienced teachers.

This is not a blame the teachers rant. It is certainly not about judging teachers via tests. This is about helping teachers become the best possible teachers, system-wide.

So teachers should move schools because it's in the students' interest, not their own. If you're a teacher that is good enough to get hired in a "better" school, then you should be given incentives to stay put and help other teachers in your current school improve.

My proposal is the creation of Master Teachers. Teachers should be recognized, through panels of their peers and their principal (more on THAT later, too), as the best of the bunch. In exchange for agreeing to spend a year at another school, or even better, move permanently, and mentoring new teachers (perhaps in the same grade) they would get the designation of Master Teacher and a bonus. Also, there should be incentives for teachers to apply internally for jobs that are "hard to fill" -- i.e. yes, you'll get someone, but they're not as attractive or more stressful as other assignments. Okay, so I copied the idea from the State Dept, but it worked.

So bottom line, we need to identify the best teachers, reward them, and then send them to help other teachers, especially in the school facing the most challenges.

This took a lot more energy than I thought, I didn't even get to the other two elements of the platform. I guess I'll leave you hanging. Maybe I better start a video blog instead?

Shifting the blog - didn't know what it was for in the first place.

2011-05-18T15:54:00.000-07:00

Three things I know I'm good at: thinking of ideas, worrying about the future, and talking to myself (hopefully, but not always, silently) Laying in bed dealing with cancer treatment leaves a lot of time for all three

I'm very hopeful that the cancer treatment will be successful and I will live for a good long time. However, as egotistical as it may be I need to share these thoughts. In the chance that I don't have enough time to share / act on these thoughts, or my chemo brain haze is actually permanent (and thus I often don't remember what I just thought about five minutes ago), I'm going to try to turn this blog into a place to air these thoughts, for posterity, for the record, for amusement of others. If you agree with me, great. If you don't, great (but please don't tell me nastily how much you don't agree -- I've got cancer, I don't need more aggravation). If you think these ideas are good but need some work, then I'm happy to discuss them with you.

Lubavirch girls -- models or madwomen?

2010-04-11T15:49:00.000-07:00

Despite the fact that I should be writing something useful, like a term paper, I've been inspired by a friend to return to my blog after a LONG hiatus. Let see how this turns out....

I recently finished reading Mystics, Mavericks, and Merrymakers by Stephanie Wellen Levine, a student of the well-known feminist psychology scholar Carol Gilligan. The is an participant-observer field study of teenage Lubavitcher girls. Not only is it a well done study from an academic viewpoint, but it challenges deeply held stereotypes (including my own) of Hasidic women.

Lubavitch, in short, is an ultra-Orthodox group with two goals -- too adhere as closely as possible to the strictest interpretation of the 613 Commandments and to convince all other Jews to do the same. Like other ultra-Orthodox Jews, Lubavitchers live according to strictly separated gender roles and women are barred from any public religious role. When thinking of the role of women in fundamentalist religions, it is normally quite repressive. From the outside, it seems the same for Lubavitcher girls.

However, reading the case studies of these girls, Levine reveals how strong, both in personality and thought, these girls are. They are uninhibited in their sense of self and proud of their personal and religious identity. They have a powerful "voice". Carol Gilligan coined the term, and her studies show how girls often lose this voice, this sense of identity and strength in self, as they enter adolescence. But these Lubavitcher girls Levine studied did not. Even at 17 on the cusp of getting married, they still had a voice.

At first, this amazed me, that despite such a constrictive society, these girls were strong, happy, and had chutzpah. Levine credits it with the strictly single-sex environment in which the girls live - the only contact with males are immediate family members. Otherwise, school, shul, and social life are all separate. Levine also believes that Hasidic theology of the power of every Jewish person to bring holiness into this world by everyday acts is empowering to these girls. But what about when they marry, when they are slaving over a Shabbat stove and popping out a new little Lubavitcher every year? Perhaps the voice disappears under a pile of dishes and diapers?

But then I thought of the Lubavitch women I have known. The first I knew well I met when we were both posted in Bogotá, Colombia -- me with the US Embassy, her with the Chabad House established to grab those wayward Colombian Jews. She adhered to all the rules and regulations of ultra-Orthodoxy. She wore skirts to her ankles and a wig (although the long curly locks of her sheitl made my hair look like the fake). She fought against taking a cab to the the hospital when she was in labor with her second son since it was Shabbat. She was able to cook for a crowd of 30 or more every Saturday afternoon. Yet she was fun, lively, intelligent, and most of all, chutzpadik. She had an amazing sense of humor and filled the room the moment she walked in. This was despite living far away from anything familiar or comfortable with two kids, a tiny apartment, and very little Spanish -- all at the tender age of 23. I thought she was an anomaly -- a rebel amongst Lubavitch women, perhaps a daredevil willing to leave, perhaps even run away, from her family

As I met other Lubavitcher women, I realized she was not. While my friend is a particularly lively personality, there were many others I met and connected with. They were smart, opinionated, and, yes, strong. I met many of them through sending my daughters to the Lubavitcher summer camp near me. This past summer, I spent more time with the counselors, all the same age of the girls Levine studied (perhaps she didn't need to move to Crown Heights for a year, she could have just gone to camp....) And yes, they were indeed rowdy, funny, boisterous, and strong.

So... this is the part where we get back to me (since blog posts are an ego trip after all). Do I want to send my girls back to the Lubavitcher camp? Before my older one reached the age of 8, it wasn't a difficult choice. The boys and girls were together and there wasn't much indoctrination except learning a few songs calling for Moshiach Now! (which in a three year old's lisp, is quite hilarious to listen to). But at 3rd grade, the boys and girls are separated, the girls are encouraged to wear skirts and have more "female oriented" activities like cooking. I'm proud of my older daughter's interest in science, sports, math, and other non-girly things (as well as plenty of girly things) and half of her fiends are boys. I didn't think it healthy for her to be separated by her gender, which to me, implied a fear of sexuality inappropriate in an 8 year old, especially my one who didn't know what "sexy" meant, and told me that she didn't care to know.

But now, I am contemplating sending her and her younger sister back. At first, it was just a a matter of money and convenience -- the Chabad camp is super-cheap (what can I say, I'm willing to trade of brainwashing for saving bucks?) and is still open when all the other camps have closed up shop in August. But now, I've read this book and I'm reminded of two things. One, is these entertaining, strong Orthodox women I've know. But two, is the time I wasted while at Barnard College -- a single sex institution (albeit in a coed university) that I left after two years, partially because it was single sex. It was too late for me -- I had already lost my voice and cared more about who the man in my life was than who I was.

I've always said that I'm in favor of single sex schools -- middle schools, that is. I don't think that's coming to my city any time soon, and the private ones are too expensive and snotty. Perhaps sending my daughter to the single sex environment of a camp isn't a bad thing. As long as it is empowering, not overly feminizing. I thought that was the problem with the way Lubavitcher women thought and treated their girls. But now I wonder if my daughter might end up all the stronger for spending some time with these females. They're strong, they're proud, and they have a nice loud, Jewish voice. Right now, so does my daughter and I don't want her to lose it.

So we live in a Jewish country after all.

2008-10-05T00:37:00.000-07:00

Okay, so my younger daughter, in the middle of the night, stood up, pulled of her diaper, and peed all over her crib -- is this her version of being interested in potty training -- got me and my husband up at 3 a.m., so the middle of the night blog is back. But I digress (can you begin a topic with a digression, or is the rest of the post a digression... hummmm.....)

So, Rosh Hashanah is a American holiday? I certainly have had some pretty strident arguments that Christmas is not an American holiday, but never had to argue for or against the High Holidays. But I agree with Jon Stewart -- what the heck was Congress doing taking off Rosh Hashanah? Two points on this one:

1. Like generations of American Jews before her, my daughter won't get a perfect attendance record because she's a practicing Jew, no matter how healthy she is this year. No, her public school doesn't close for Rosh Hashanah, but Congress, about five miles down the street did. Can Jim Moran, my Representative, still get a good attendance record? Was he in shul, blaming the Jews for the war in Iraq to his neighbor during the Amidah?

2. Well, if the anti-Semites and general small minded thought that Jews controlled the banking industry, they've got proof now! If Wall Street (full of them Jews), being rescued by Congress (with its banking committee headed by a Jew) can take a day off from this end-of-the-world crisis to celebrate the birth of the world, well, it must be because The Jews got it all covered anyway.

But really, did they have to delay meeting until after two days of Rosh Hashanah? You know, there are synagogues in Washington. Barney, Joe, Russ, and anyone else, Jewish or honorary Jew, could drop into one of our many Beth Els, Emmanuels, and and other Hebrew Congregations, have a quick daven, even a little nosh at the oneg, and still be in for deliberation by 1:30 or so (a respectable time to show up on the House floor). Rosh Hashanah isn't even a holy day with full prohibitions of work, it's only a Festival. They could drive back to Congress!!!

But if it's that important that the corridors of power must be shut down for a Jewish holiday, then at least give my kid the day off school, too. Next year, the holidays are on the weekend, but come 5770 (2010), it better be official, or I'm taking off Ash Wednesday and Good Friday!

Are we as stupid as they think we are?

2008-09-11T22:53:00.001-07:00

Putting Sarah Palin on the GOP ticket was an obvious ploy to increase John McCain's support from two specific groups: the religious right and women. The religious right has already shown it cares more about symbols and substance -- they were a large force in the reelection of George W. Bush despite the fact that his administration had done nothing significant in their issue areas in the first term Just saying that he was against choice, separation of church and state,
etc. was enough for them to support him for re-election based on superficial, and insubstantial, reasons. They now support McCain despite proven hostility to the religious right. They are easily bought off.

But are women as naive as this, too? Should we support Sarah Palin just because she's a woman? Sadly, it seems that's enough for some women, given the poll numbers showing a marked increase in white women supporting the GOP ticket. Why are we falling for this transparent
ploy? What will Sarah Palin do for women? Give us reproductive choice (which she and her daughter have the privilege to exercise), promote equality in pay (never said anything about that), fight for good public education for all children beyond just test scores (no, vouchers and charter schools are more important than improving the schools most children go to), pushing for family friendly policies at work? -- doesn't matter to her since she has two sets of grandparents living near by to care for her kids.

When I think back to the women who fought for universal suffrage, I'm sad to say that maybe their critics were right -- women aren't smart enough to vote. Could this be true -- are we can only understand the superficial? Or do we vote thoughtfully, caring not so much for who is running that what they stand for. As women, we care for others -- our family, our community, etc. But should we support a woman who advocates policies that don't support the way we do -- caring for the needy, the young, the vulnerable?

We women are better than this, aren't we?

Camoflauge

2008-04-20T19:49:00.000-07:00

While cleaning my kitchen tonight, after the onslaught of various relatives, including a few little slobs under four feet, I had a random, yet profound thought.

I hate when kids wear camouflage clothes. First off, children are violent and destructive enough, we don't need to encourage them to emulate soldiers. (Yes, soldiers have other admirable quality -- obedience, discipline, loyalty -- but as if green splotches would inspire that in a kid!) Additionally, camouflage is meant to disguise the wearer, so they can't be seen by others. Now this is a great idea -- as I know that if my children are hiding from me, they certainly aren't doing something I wouldn't want them to do.

So I refuse to buy anything that looks even slightly camouflage-ish for my girls. Of course, my mother arrives a few days ago, with bundles of clothing in hand for the girls, carefully culled from the racks of TJ Maxx. They're all adorable, except the nightgown for the older one. It's pink, yes, it has ruffles, yes, it even has an Supergirl "S". This should be empowering for my daughter -- she either would think she looks like a princess (ruffles, pink) or a superhero. But, alas, it is pink CAMOUFLAGE! What's the message here? Supergirl is a soldier, hiding out in the jungle, knocking out hostiles with her AK-47, wrist ruffles flying!

Okay, so, established, I don't like camouflage. But then, cleaning the kitchen, I thought, why are stoves white or stainless steel? Here am I, scraping burnt egg and such off the top of my white stove. I want a camouflage stove! I like green (although maybe Dessert Storm tan might be a bit more soothing on the eyes) and I hate cleaning. Why stop with a camo stove? How about a camo floor, countertops, even sink? I wouldn't have to clean the kitchen until it started smelling or crunched underfoot, and even then, that would only add to the jungle atmosphere. Maybe I'd add some large ferns to hide the dirty dishes in the sink, too.

Camouflage in the kitchen doesn't work everywhere. The outside of the fridge, yes, the inside, definitely not. Imagine how much more often you'd hear the petulant whine "I can't find it, can you come and find it for me" (that's my husband, my girls just yell "Mamaaaaa!")

But I propose that the next great decorating movement not be a return to avocado and orange a la 1970s, nor Emeril worthy stainless steel industrial size appliances that look more like garbage trucks. Let's see Elle Decor and Dominio and the others feature really useful, cutting edge kitchen style -- camouflage. Overwhelmed, stressed out moms will happily pull out their credit cards.

Why early parenthood is like college

2007-11-01T18:53:00.000-07:00

Since I teach undergraduates, I spend much time envying their freedom, self-centerdness, and opportunity to swim, and sometimes drown, in knowledge. Oh, to be back in those days, living in a dorm room (no mortgage, no nagging repairs, minimal cleaning), going out most nights, being in close proximity of friends, and again, all the learning, the brain growing, the becoming. But I can't fool myself into glowing memories of halcyon days,:, one look at my students' faces, and I remember I how really felt -- stressed, anxious, impatient, and as if I were on a roller coaster where the highs and lows were of dire consequence. Only now, when the excitement and freedom of that period is long gone, do I realize how much I had, how much more I could have enjoyed instead of stressing out.

And so, it seems, I will feel a couple of years from now. Right now, I am sleep-deprived, stressed, anxious, and overwhelmed by all that must be done. My moods swing from delight to devastation. I'm not back in college (although I am trying to get a PhD, but more on that later....) I'm an early parent, with two young girls. And I am SO STRESSED!!!!! I'm on a roller-coaster again, thrilled with my child's latest achievement, depressed at the piles of bills, laughing at silly moments, pissed off at my husband -- all in the space of a few hours. I didn't realize, however, how similar this time is to college years until I heard my students going on about how STRESSED they are.

I thought to myself "you have no idea," and, in fact, they don't. Not that life can't get more stressful, it can get way more stressful in ways I can only imagine in my most anxious moments. But what I realized is that, I have no idea, either. These are the halcyon days, too, but I'm too overwhelmed by the challenge of it all to realize the joy I experience at the same time. Like college, the moments of pleasure seem compressed between lack of sleep, competing demands, and self-doubt. Now, it's a child (or children) who keep me awake past midnight. I juggle competing demands on my time, and wonder if I'm screwing it all up anywaay. I know that I have wonderful children, that they are an absolute joy, but I can't seem to let myself just sit back and savor the moment of their early childhood because I feel too pressured by all that is demanded of me.

When I ask my mother "what did you do about X?" when my brother and I were this age, she often says, "I don't know, we were too busy to worry about things like that." She was also too busy to remember many of the little, cute, day to day precious events. As she says "we didn't have any choice". That's how I feel, but I realize I do have a choice. It's not the automatic choice, to respond to the pressures the best I can, batting away incoming meteors before they shatter the very fragile order of our lives, but maybe I should make sure that when I'm not in the very midst of these challenges, I'm in the midst of savoring this short period of my life.

Yesterday, I had way too much to do (as always). The house was a mess, there were bills to pay (with the concurrent stress of knowing we couldn't pay them), books for both the PhD class I'm taking and the undergraduate class I'm teaching were whining to be read (yes, when you have a book that must be read but won't be enjoyed, it seems to whine on, doesn't it?) I had the impulse to plop Maisy in front of a Teletubbies video, again. (She's watched the video so often that she's as good as naming the four Teletubbies as speaking the name of her sister). But instead, I let her climb up the stairs, something that I couldn't mutlitask -- if I wanted my child in one piece, all my attention had to devoted to that little tushie struggling upwards. So I did, and I was rewarded with real pleasure, real uninterrupted joy (I say this as I type and same child is standing up, saying "Mama" and demanding attention -- we always are making these choices....) But yesterday, I didn't try to do, I just watched. I watched as Maisy climbed each stair, then would turn around, grin at me, waive her left hand. and say "bye-bye". I will cherish those five minutes forever (and remember them well when, fifteen years later, she says "bye-bye" while waving car keys to at me.)

The moments to cherish aren't always as clear, or as pleasurable, as this. Lillie will be home from school soon, demanding my undivided attention. Of course, there is no way I can give it to her, with a cute, competing little sister demanding the same. In fact, I'd much rather plop both of them in front of the TV and do my work, which is whining all the more noisily in my head since I've done no academic work since yesterday afternoon. But it's not just that, Lillie is more like a termpaper than just hanging around a dorm, as Maisy seems to be at the moment. Being with Lillie takes work -- not just being there, but actually engaging, thinking, being challenged. The pleasure is not so obvious, it may not even be felt for a long time, if ever; But, if I try to If I ignore her demands, as my students often ignore their assignments, I lose out. I won't get nearly as much from being her mother. Today, I regret that I didn't write a thesis, didn't get an internship. It just seemed too demanding, too unecessary, and all too easy to avoid. Tomorrow, will I regret playing Fairies with Lillie? I absolutely will. So I need to figure out a way to take the time, to find the pleasure in hearing Lillie say over and over, "pretend I'm Tinkerbell and you're Fira" or "pretend I'm Harry Potter and you're Hermione" or (ugh!) "play The American Girl Card Game with me!" It might seem pretty onerous right now, but later on, I'll regret I didn't realize how much I was denying myself by avoiding less pleasurable activitie3s.

Soon enough, I'll only have memories and poor second chances. Doing a masters was not nearly as life-illuminating as my undergraduate studies, and I doubt my PhD study will be much different. And certainly, being a grandparent will be a joy, but it will never equal the moments spent engaging with my young girls. So I'll end here, and go blow bubbles with Maisy.

Insanity at 4 a.m.

2007-08-20T03:25:00.000-07:00

Picture the scene.....
Time: 4:15 a.m.
Place: my older daughter's bedroom
Action: Oldest daughter, sitting stark naked, wide-awake, organizing her "magic wands" (pencils) by size under the bright light of her bedside lamp. Mama walks in, bleary eyed.

Olkay.... now what?

Take one: Mama is empathetic. She's had nights (like right now) where she wakes up and can't fall asleep. Asks what Daughter is doing, feigns interest. Goes to move pencils lined up on bed, Daughter howls, Mama leaves them be. Tells her to turn off the light and go to sleep by 4:30 (points to digital clock on nightstand) gives her a kiss, wanders back to own bed and passes out.

Take two: (One hour later). Mama, again walking bleary eyed, emerges from Younger Daughter's room (5:15 nursing --purely for comfort -- for Mama) to see light still blaring in Older Daughter's room. "You were supposed to go to sleep an hour ago!" "I didn't look at the clock." (Well, that's one way to avoid obeying an order to go to sleep at 4:30). Leaving pencils still lined up (but taking book being read) Mama turns off light strernly, stumbles back into bed.

Take three: (Less than three mintues later) Light emerges from under closed door of Older Daughter's room. Mama looks at clock, past 5 a.m., justifiable to wake (morning person) husband. Informs him of situation, rolls over and tries to go back to sleep. Hears Abba go into Older Daughter's room, bellows (somewhat quietly) at her to TURN OFF THE LIGHT and BE QUIET! Takes pencils. Daughter howls (higher pitch, almost as loud as Abba bellow). Abba repeatedly hisses (still loudly) BE!!!! QUIET!!!! Mama lies in bed, praying Younger Daughter doesn't wake (having just been put back into crib after emo-nurse) and wondering if she did The Right Thing by sending in Cranky Abba. Now child is snuffling miserably, Abba is bent out of shape, Mama can't sleep (Younger Daughter, miraculously, is still sleeping).

Now, what would you have done if you walked in on your 6 1/2 year old, starkers, lining up pencils and in the middle of the night. Is this Normal? Is it Weird? Does it Matter?

Could this be anxiety about starting a new camp tomorrow? A brilliant, over active imagination that won't let her sleep? A blazing streak of independence that refuses to anything but what she wants to do? All of the above? And is the whole scence, Mama, Older Daughter, Abba (let's leave out Younger Daughter until she can at least talk) -- INSANE?

Or am I just overtired?

Political nightmare

2007-06-29T09:45:00.000-07:00

Warning: This post is NOT for the faint hearted......

Recently, my little one has been in a growth spurt, which means that when she's not eating, she's sleeping, and thus, so am I. And during this more abundant sleep, the dreams have been coming fast and furious. Most are your basic anxiety dream, occasionally R-rated, but nothing truly interpretive. Until now.

Maybe I've been reading the news too much, maybe speaking to my husband (and politics junkie) too much (not possible, we barely have time for conversation), but it's seeped into my unconscious. Last night, I dreamed I was a Muslim woman, veiled and all, having sex with (hold on to your lunch) George Bush! But this same woman, when walking down a secret flight of stairs, was then transported to Georgetown, and was now unveiled and a Paris Hilton type. Disturbing, no?

So what does this mean? It CERTYAINLY does not mean I find George Bush attractive. Is it about said Head of State and his policy towards the Middle EAst -- i.e. let's screw it? My interpretation is a little more nuanced -- that the powers that be in DC have misled Georgie into thinking that the Mid East wanted him and was his to "enter", tricking him into thinking the will of the "Georgetown" was the will of the Mid East.

But whatever. In the end, I jsut feel a little grossed out and have GOT to stop reading about Paris Hilton :)

strapped

2007-06-02T12:05:00.000-07:00

My husband's koala, Einstein, did himself in today. Daniel found him hanging by his (Daniel's) belt from the wardrobe in our bedroom. Okay, so Einstein is a puppet, but still, it was quite the statement, wasn't it? Did I have anything to do with it.... hmmm? Well, let's just say that this morning, in a half awake, very cranky state (as is of most mornings) I was woken by noisy child #1 (due to the benign neglect of said husband), shuffled into the bathroom, took a look at myself in the mirror on the door, and added to the horrors of my unwashed for two days hair, was a long, leather belt, hanging from the hook above.

Call me neurotic, call me father fixated or penis envious or childhood traumatized, but I cannot stand seeing his belt hanging like this. He could say it's pure laziness but if that's so, why are the rest of his clothes on the floor with only the leather member swinging in the bathroom breeze? Not only do I have to see it menacingly on the door, but in front a mirror, so it's double the aggression. Needless to say, I don't think it's just laziness. Now is this my thing? Well, sure, partly. As a kid, my brother and I were spanked, and my father often threatened bad behavior with "I'm going to take off my strap" -- i.e.. belt. Did he actually hit us wth the belt? No. It was just the brutality of the threat, clearly made in anger. That was scarier -- it wasn't a belt, it was a strap!

So when I see it hanging in our bathroom, don't blame me for being offened by the, at minimum, arrogance, and maximum, threat and aggression evidenced by my husband.

And don't say I'm one of these women who expects her husband to read her mind. Trust me, I let my husband know exactly what's on my mind like the daily headlines. I've been telling him not to hang his belt there since we first moved in together nine years ago. And this morning, cranky as I was, I took a deep breath and gently pointed out to him that he had left his belt hanging again after his shower, along with his glasses on the stepstool in front of the sink (not THAT'S smart - just perfect for little feet to step on). So he went back in, and put away the glasses. And later, when I woke up, there the belt still was.

So poor furry little Einie had to suffer for his "daddy's" mistake. As I explained to Daniel, maybe Einstein didn't want to live anymore in a world, or at least a home, so filled with strife. Or maybe I just wished for a moment that my husband would take that belt and put it around his own neck (just for a moment -- his life insurance policy probbly doesn't cover suicide).

Fortunately, Einie pulled a Heather. Or at least Einie's poor life was saved when my daughter asked "what happened?" All of sudden, Einstein was just bungee jumping. So he got a reprieve -- I'm still convinced, however, that this will come out in Lillie's therapy session circa 2038 -- "my mother was so passive agressive, she hung my father's stuffed animal with his belt"-- well, yeah, although there's nothing "passive' about it.

Will Daniel put his belt away next time, probably for a week or two, but then he'll revert to the same semi-conscious passive-agreessive habit of his own. And I don't believe in passive-aggressive. So next time, I'll just belt him. THAT should be good fodder for my children's future therapists.

Hit by a Wagner

2007-05-17T21:00:00.000-07:00

As a Jew, one needs to be careful as to where to lay one's cultural head. Opera, for example. Opera should be a Jewish thing -- it's educated (you have to be able to read to enjoy it, learned in a foreign language to truly understand. It's expensive. It's big in New York. It has snob appeal. However, while a Jewish opera buff is safe cruising along, relishing "The Magic Flute" or delving into "Einstein on the Beach", let your guard down and you and you could be hit with a Wagner! And then what. Does an excuse of "art is art" make up for that art coming from brain also pickled in anti-semitism? It's an awkward position to be in, kind of being a vegatarian who indulges in marshmallow Peeps (gelatin, you know).

Food is a big one for us Jews. Even when we don't care about Kashrut, eating pork in front of non-Jews, who know about our being Jewish, feels like being on the hot seat. I participated in a interfaith retreat once, and while I don't keep kosher, I felt I had to eat the nasty, Meal Mart packaged food brought in just to be appreciative of those thoughtful enough to want to feed the Jews and to prove my "I'm into my religion but still can relate to others" cred.

What about politics? Can you be anti-immigrant if you grew up hearing stories of your great-grandparents escaping with just the clothes on their back from The Old Country and weeping for joy when seeing the Statue of Liberty? Or can you support bilingual education when, in the same story, you hear how your grandparents "learned the language and didn't expect anyone to do them any favors."

The ultimate conundrum is Israel. It used to be if you were a Jew, you supported Israel, the israeli government, military, period. Now, not only do we reckon with the label of "apartheid" and scenes of Palestinian or Lebanese civilians caught in the crossfire, but you also are standing shoulder to shoulder in your support with Evangelical Christians who might be the same ones supporting anti-immigration, as well as anti-abortion, anti-homosexuality, and anti-secular legislation.

You've got to look both ways before you take a stand, or you could be hit with a Wagner and not even see it coming.

The metro as metaphor?

2007-02-17T23:38:00.001-08:00

Recently, I was riding the metro here in Washington, DC. Ashamed as I am to admit it, I don't use metro very often, instead opting to drive my car. My excuse, at least for now, is time. I'm still nursing, so I have four hour windows, at most, between feedings. I had an appontment at 2, and if I take the Metro, I need to (as I did ) leave by 12:30 and might not be home until 4 (I was back at 3:45, but only because I took a taxi from the metro stop). If I had driven, I would have left by 1:30 and been home by 3:15. But this essay isn't about self-flagelation for not chioosing the environmentally-conscious (never mind saler) mode of transport, it's about the metro as metaphor for the city.

I've lived in a few big cities, Boston, New York, London, and Washington, DC (I also lived in a Latin American capital, but n o metro there). I've visited plenty others. In each, there is the usual mix of urban dwellers, plus tourists and those who, save for poverty, would drive if they could but instead have to take the, as above, less efficient option. The experience I have had of each, differed in many ways, but one is, which emotions does the ride bring about? In Boston, it's often intellectual curiousity, "I wonder what school that kid goes to / what he's studying / what he's reading?" Glamorization of "Southies" nonetheless, Boston's subway (T) riders are a brainy lot. In New York, it's a cutlural question -- "What is he/she/it wearing / doing / eating / singing / bugging me about?" In London, it's geographic -- "where is that bloke / strnage accent / veled woman from?" Here is's political.

Politics stir many emotions in me, very few benign. I chose to study international relations, and avoid as much as possible domestic politcs, becuase I find Congressional bickering far more depressing than wars and genocides. When the two cross, such as the knagaroo court of latest Congressional protest against our war against Iraq, I'm at the end of my emotional tether. The metro rubs salt in this psychic wound.

On my ride in, I noticed an interest satorical trend -- camoflague. But for most (not all) it was not of choice. When I first came to DC, one of the big shockers was the frequent sight of military personnel. But then, most of them were resident at the Pentagon or other tyoes of desk jockey - middle aged, burdened with a spouse and kids, tired and bored; little different from other goverment-employees save that their poor choice of garment was not their own doing. (I had a friend who became positively hypertensive at the site of so many women in suits and running shoes). These days, Washington's residents are a prettier, better-dressed lot (all that money generatedi n K streeet is going to Barney's and Bloomie's, it seems). The most beautiful of the government minions, however, are the ones garbed in camo.

Thoise r5iding the metro obviously employed by DoD were now soldiers. Vibrant young men and women, healthy, alert, vibrating with energy, and wearing the colors of death -- various shades of green and brown, anchored by heavy black boots. When I stared at this lovely young woman, shiny brown hair pulled into a neat pony-tail, glowing, clear skin and the young man, even boy, with his strong jaw and bright eyes and gorgeous smile, I filled with anger and sadness. While these two may be lucky enought o be desk-jockeys as well, although more likely the elder desk-jockeys mules, running too and fro bearing messages and briefcases, they could be two of the hunderds of thousands beautiful, vibrant souls currently in Iraq and Afghanistan (and all the other stations supporting the "war effort"). And so many of these beautiful faces will be covered with blood, strong hands hanging off a dismembered arms, shining eyees gone curdled in death.

War can be objected to for an endless number of reasons, but at the moment of seeing young people in camoflague riding the metro, I mourned for beauty. George Bush must hate the beautfiul. Not people, clearly he is puffed with pride in his two daughtters fine Texas-style glamor. But he can live with the knowledge that he is destroging the most truly beautfiulthing in life, young life and all the potential it holds. More than engineering the death of so many young Americans (never mind all the Iraqis) he is killing the future. World War I is remembered for nothing more than Flanders Field, the poppies symbolic of all the dead young men, the glory of European culture badly bruised, the strength of it's youth ravaged. A whole generation was lost. WE won't, so far, lose a generation of young men and women to combat in Iraq, to a war as fabricated and so muchmore unecessary as Iraq. However, we will forever be reminded by it, by the beauty it gobbled up and defecated out in the form of the permanently traumatized, the horribly injured, the endlessly suffering veterans and their survivors.

As I sat on the metro, this was my one overwhelming source of emotion. The other was the gray-haired couple trying to figure out the train system. Why were they here? Were the "tourons" (I nomiker I had never heard before I met my husband, a native of the area). Did they come to see "our nation's Capital". Were they proud of being Americans? How did they feel about the war.

In Phillip Roth's book "The Plot Against Amerca", the protaganitst family comes to visit WAshington, DC for long-anticipated trip event hough they hate the sitting president and felt threatened by his agenda. They came in defiance, to reclaim their pride in being American's despite the doings of a administration they despised. Did this couple feel that way, or did they approve of Bush and his choices as leader. Or worst of all, did it not matter to them? What were they thinking as they say the young sodiers? I fear, most of all, that they were nothing special, just two more stupid Americans, fattened on a diet of low-culture, cheap patriotism, and geographic insularity. The same people who were duped into believing in this war and whose favor could be curried with the right sound bite or two. And then I think, could they have been visiting their son or daughter here? A college student? An intern in the office of a midwestern Congressman? Or, just perhaps, a soldier? Well, at least if they did have children, they were alive. These were not parents of a corpse. Not yet.

The baby package

2007-02-13T23:15:00.000-08:00

Why do I adore babies? So many reasons. The little hands like soft flowers, the toothless grin, high pitched squeals, the crying that sounds like laughter and the laughter that sounds like bells. And the thighs! Those pulkes (Yiddish); I wished and prayed for a lovely pair on my second child -- the first was, and still is, a skinny kid. And boy did I get my prayers answered. Put a tutu on my naked daughter and you'd have one of the hippos straight out of Fantasia. Little, dimpled, rolled thighs tapering into tiny little ankles and fat square feet with fringe of toes. Yummy.

But enough about how I have a bizarre (and reverse Oedipla) desire to consume my children. Back to why I love babies, all babies, not just mine. Babies are a beautifully wrapped package. Adorable and enchanting to look at, but you have no idea what's inside when it's first put n your hands. But slowly, slowly, the wrapping peels away bit by bit, not in large, consistent sections, but a little snip here, and pulling seam there. Hints of what might lie inside. As I parent, I assume I'll spend the reest of my life watching these packages unwrap and open, but now I only see a flash of blue, and bit of s swirl, maybe a rough spot, and try to guess who the older child, teen, young adult, future parent, gray haired woman, might be. I should really write some predicitions down, and see how right or wrong I am, but I'm afraid I'd just reveal my presumptions that will shape the end product, for better and worse. Because that's the other thing about these packages, the longer you have them, the more you will push on and shape them. What's inside is all there, but years of rough handling can destroy the prettiest bits, where leaving it alone might cause other parts to get dusty and fade.

What's so hard about saying sorry?

2007-02-13T20:18:00.000-08:00

I want to say sorry. I have lots of reasons every day, to my husband, my children, all the people out there on the roads the same time I am. But my apology isn't to them. It's to the future. When the history books look back on the US war / invasion / occupation / destruction of Iraq, they won't say "and why didn't Joni do more to stop it?" But they should. They should ask all of us. And the answer was, I'm too busy, I'm too insulated from it, I couldn't be bothered to inconvenience my life, I didn't want to try so hard that it might have a one hundredth of a percent chance of having any impact. But I do feel guilty. I know that if I leave this country and am detected as an American, I will be held responsible for the actions of my government. No I certainly did not vote for George Bush either time. But I am a citizen, I do live here, I do pay taxes, and I do take advantage of the many public services offered to me (I don't take my own trash to the city dump, do you?)

And becasue of this, I want to apologize. Not to the rude French person who sneers at me becasue I'm American and part of a war-mongering country (as if the French have clean hands -- ask the Algerians). No, I want to apologize to the children in Iraq. Even if we were justified in going in there (and we weren't, at least not as soon, as arrogantly, as we did -- but that's another post), we have destroyed their country and, at best, hobbled their future.

If I weren't too lazy, too busy, too selfish, too involved with my own children, I'd start a campaign. A campaign for every person living in America (citizens, illegals, and everyone in between -- i.e. the Irish bartender who is still on vacation three years later). All 300 million. Each of us should apologize to the Iraqi children, and as a gesture of trying to do better, to make things better for them, each donate a dollar to rebuild schools. Schools where they can all learn, and where, in a conflict, they will all be protected. Three-hundred million dollars is barely a drop in the ocean (less than what's been spent on this war, too). But maybe we could use it to build schools like the new US Embassies -- bomb proof campuses, oases of safety, with dorms for students and / or teachers, to be used year round or only in emergency. Everyoone is suffereing in Iraq, but we are destroying childhoods and creating future terrorists (see Newsweek article). Aren't we sorry about this? Don't we, the richest people in the world, want to make it better for them? Can't we spare one dollar to do so?

Okay, so that's my dream campaign. But there it is. And it makes me reflect back on a conversation I had with my husband a few days ago. Why do so many people think that saying "sorry" is to humiliate yourself? Why didn't Baby Doc Bush actually say "I'm sorry" in his State of the Union? Would that, like disagreeing with the war, give Bin Laden larger cajones and convince him to train some more pilots? A true man, and true person, can admit their mistakes and say sorry, and realize what a gift they are giving in doing so. They are not only saying, "I am wise enough to reflect upon and analyze my own choices and actions" but they are also saying "and I am determined and capable that I will do much better now". If Bush apologized for his mistaken choices, we could regain world sympathy and support. That, not more troops, will win the war against terror in the long run.

You're both my favorite

2007-02-12T20:31:00.000-08:00

My daughters are two different books. They share much the same content, even very similar plotlines, but how they are written and how I enjoy them differs.

One is stunningly crafted, fascinatingly complex story, and a thrilling challenge to read. I am constantly thinking, learning, growing as a person from the experience. The twists and turns sometimes baffle me, but after they make perfect sense and I am grateful how the best is demanded of me. The pleasure is not only in the story, although the story itself is wonderful, entertaining, engaging, but also in knowing that I am capable of truly understanding such a profund work.

The other is an equally marvelous book, I've only started this one six months ago. It is such a sheer pleasure, absorbing and funny. I don't want to put it down, for each chapter to end. The protaganist is utterly charming, and I can't wait to see what happens next.

But both books are my favorite book. Each child is my favorite child. I'm glad that the first is the challenging read, because I want to learn from her. And I do. She has me thinking on my feet, not because she's any more difficult to deal wtih than my second daughter, but because everything we do together is new to both of us. When she first touched my face, I had never felt my child recognize me. When she struggled with a cold, I never hurt so much from someone else's discomfort. When she went off to kindergarten, I never before feared so much that school could kill a love of learning. These powerful emotions were shockingly novel and so deeply wonderful. With my second, the experience isn't so startling, but since I know what is coming, more or less, I can revel in the experience itself, savoring it like a delicious dessert. And she does feel like dessert, becuase afterwards I'll have to leave the table. (How did I get from a library to a restaurant?)

Book number two is crying. The end.

Late night brain farts?

2007-02-12T20:14:00.000-08:00

Why am I blogging? It's a bandwagon that I have seen, even encouraged, others in my life (husband, students, friends) to ride, but I have held off. I've never been very consistent at keeping a journal, producing written work, etc. so why would I be any more prolific with an audience (of zero at this point, but I'll probably indulge the ego and invite a few spectators soon enough). Will there be comment, will I be "discovered", will someone in my family get offended? Only the last is likely. But still, I have this annoying habit of being inspired to write - like heartburn, it comes only late at night and it prevents me from sleeping. If nothing else, I will forget the access code for this page,too, (as I did my personal page, hence evidence for my inability to stick to anything for very long....) but my daughters may someday stumble upon it as a quaint relic. And if so, maybe they'll get a different perspective, even insight, into who their mother was then. Maybe they even explain it to me (as if I'll care who I was or what I was thinking at 37 when I'm a wild 117 year-old hottie zipping around in my flying car). Well, you be the judge if these are brain farts or interesting ideas and insights. I just want to get some rest.