Los Angelista

I Cried During Hollywood High's Performance of 'In the Heights' (Go See it and You'll Know Why)

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Sat, 18 May 2013 21:33:00 +0000

Friday night during the second act of Hollywood High School's performance of the Tony Award-winning musical "In the Heights," I found myself getting tears in my eyes.

Sure, I cried because the show was that good. In those parts of the musical where the main characters, Usnavi, Vanessa, Benny, and Nina, were going through major struggles, the performers got me feeling all emotional like a good performance should. They transported me and my sons to Washington Heights and made me feel what it's like to be a part of the Upper Manhattan neighborbood. Yes, the diverse cast of students may be young but they're incredibly talented--true triple threats with acting, dancing, and singing chops that beat anyone you've seen on American Idol or The Voice and rival pretty much any pop star out there.

But that's probably only half the reason why I cried. And that's only half the reason why you should go see the show.

At a time when we see so much negative news about schools, and when too many students never get the chance to develop their talents, how refreshing it is to see sets like the one in the above picture designed by students. Yes, TEENAGERS designed that set. No, there was no multiple choice standardized test question assessing their mastery of building a staircase or making a fake bodega door. THANK GOD!

I cried because it was so very refreshing seeing pure joy radiating from the faces of students! We don't see that on most student's faces. And who says students nowadays lack passion? These kids...the hours of practice they must've put in to get this show down in this way blows my mind.

No, I'm not exaggerating about how good it is. This is not your kid's holiday show or spring concert or whatever you're used to seeing. This is a production that's on the level of anything you'll see in a major theater. And I won't be surprised to see some of these kids--particularly the ones playing Usnavi and Vanessa--either on Broadway or in the Billboard music charts one day soon.

But don't take my word for it. If you're in LA, go check it out yourself. There are several performances over the next week:

Tickets are only $20 for adults and $10 for students. You can buy them here.

Everybody Misses Their Grandma When She's Gone

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Mon, 01 Apr 2013 06:30:00 +0000

It's been a weekend of thinking of my grandmother. (When I say "grandmother" I mean my mother's mother because of this.) On Saturday Mr. T, Mr. O, and I went and did some gardening with the Social Justice Learning Institute, which took me back to my grandmother's rows and rows of tomatoes and other vegetables growing in her backyard. She was never without a garden until she was physically incapable of growing one.

And every Easter Sunday, I think of how I used to put on a fancy dress, get my hair pressed to perfection, buckle on some patent leather shoes, and pile in my father's silver Mercury Monarch to take a lily to her house. I remember sitting in her kitchen dyeing eggs and placing the completed pink, blue, and lavender ones in that fake green grass we use to line Easter baskets. She's the one who turned me on to jellybeans, and they're still my favorite candy.

I know you'll understand my reminiscing. After all, everybody misses their grandma when she's gone.

A Los Angelista Review: Depeche Mode's 13th Album, Delta Machine

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Sat, 30 Mar 2013 16:33:00 +0000

Thirteen: A number that, depending on what you believe, brings you either good fortune or terrible luck--or signifies that a boy is mature. Depeche Mode's 13th album, Delta Machine, which made its debut on Tuesday, will leave you pondering whether, after 33 years together, Andrew Fletcher, Dave Gahan, and Martin Gore, are lucky musical saints or tormented sinners. As for maturity, don't make the mistake of thinking the word equals "boring." Depeche Mode has indeed matured but the boys from Basildon haven't lost their ability to thrill.

Having loved this band for most of my life--and fangirled all over the internet for them--I am not an unbiased reviewer. For me even sonic crap from Depeche Mode outshines most music being released today. That said, the 13 tracks--oh yes, there's that number again--on Delta Machine shimmer with a fresh yet familiar electronic grit and pulsate with a dangerous bleakness that runs both hot and cold.

The thrilling begins with the hypnotic first track...

1. Welcome To My World: "Leave your tranquilisers at home. You don't need them anymore," croons Dave Gahan in the first verse of this album opener. Indeed, when you hear the bass in this song, you're gonna chuck your stash of pills for a new habit: The Depeche Mode habit. (I hear it's sold on the black market under the code name "Delta Machine.")

Final Grade: A

Going hard in the electronic paint.

2. Angel: The way this track starts out...super bluesy, lots of deep, dirty bass, and a bit slow with lyrics straight out of the "Martin Lee Gore 21st Century Depeche Mode Lyrics" playbook ("The Angel of love was upon me")--is not at all how it ends up.

1:40 into the song the percussion changes and it morphs into an awesome drum and bass-tinged track that's clamoring for its dubstep baby to be born. I start envisioning this being remixed by Bassnectar, Gemini, or Xilent--or heck, let Lucky Date or Skrillex put some bounce and drops on this track...and then the song freakin' ends! KILLING ME! This needs an extended remix, stat.

Final Grade: A-

3. Heaven: Just when I'm all amped up by the aggressive ending of "Angel," the album version of "Heaven" brings me back to a super slooooow "honey chile, you is down South in the Delta so have some lemonaaaaade so you can go to heavennnnn" tempo. This song was the first single, but...I don't find myself wanting to play it on the regular. As part of the whole album, I'm cool to listen to it, but I admit I prefer the much more uptempo Owlle remix.

That said, lines like...

I stand in golden rays radiantly
I burn a fire of love over and over
Reflecting endless light relentlessly
I have embraced the flame forever and ever

...make a lovely piece of poetry.

Final Grade: B-

My favorite words are "angel, soul, heaven, and love."

4. The Secret to the End: When I heard the first line of this Dave Gahan/Kurt Uenala-penned track, "Oh when I look at you/I'm probably the same way too" I was like, "What the eff are you talking about, Dave Gahan?" and started laughing. But this is, ultimately, a breakup song that is full of regret at the tip of a knife. You're sorry things ended...except maybe not really. I have fallen in love with the call and response between Gahan and Gore in the chorus and the last minute of the track is sonic goodness.

Final Grade: B

5. My Little Universe: If you grew up listening to Detroit Techno or Chicago House, this song's stripped down electronic beats will feel very familiar. In fact, at around the 3:30 mark in "My Little Universe," I found myself reminded of Tyree Cooper's nearly 30-year-old acid house masterpieces "Acid Over" and "Video Crash." (Who out there knows where Tyree is these days? Can we get him to remix this?)

That said, there is such a distinct, modern freshness to this track. Perhaps it's actually acid dipped in Berlin techno, circa 2012. And the lyrics perfectly describe our disconnected internet existence:

Limited consciousness
Preserves me
It protects me
And just connects enough
To keep the wolves at bay

Actually, can we have one of the Belleville Three remix this? That would surely be Depeche Mode coming full circle.

Final Grade: A

Kevin Saunderson, are you out there?

6. Slow: Is not a fast song. Welcome to bluesy, dark synthpop about...

I don't need a race in my bed
When speed's in my heart
And speed's in my head instead

Dave Gahan's delivery on this doesn't come off as some romantic sap--no offense to all you romantic saps out there--singing about his approach to sex. (Or rather, Gahan singing about Martin Gore's approach to sex since Gore penned the track.) Instead, Gahan sings the lyrics with a provocative inflection. "How slow can you go?" is what he seems to be asking the listener.

I wouldn't mind hearing some studio outtakes of Martin Gore singing this. Also, I might have to tell the kids that this song's about taking your time eating your dinner--you don't want to choke cos you didn't chew everything properly. Yup.

Final Grade: B

7. Broken: Another Gahan/Uenala collaboration that I'm not in loooove with, but I don't absolutely hate it either. The verses sometimes veer into Depeche Mode parody territory, but Gahan sings the chorus...

When you're falling I will catch you
You don't have to fall that far
You can make it, I will be there
You were broken from the start.

...with an earnestness that completely saves this song. That said, even though I've now listened to it several times, when I look at the track listing for Delta Machine and I see the title "Broken," I have a hard time immediately recalling much else I like about it. I don't hate it but if it had somehow been left off the album, it wouldn't have made much difference.

Final Grade: C+

Let me show you the world in my eyes...

8. The Child Inside: I love Martin Gore in a pretty epic way (Exhibit A, Exhibit B, and Exhibit C is EVERYTHING) but hell naw to this maudlin ass track. I gave it four listens and am still wondering what kind of conversations went on amongst the members of Depeche Mode that led to this song being included on Delta Machine. Next time, someone tell Martin to go have a seat cos the answer is "No!"

That said, when I read the lyrics as if they're angsty poetry, lines like this one from the second verse...

You know you should have taken all your dolls to bed
But you were made to play games with your soul instead

...have a little flavor to them. But then Martin moans, "The child inside you died." Sigh.

The crowd may die if he sings this during the upcoming tour. I can already hear my girl Suzy (peruse our Depeche Mode adventure from the last tour for more MLG adoration from moi) saying, "Martin Gore solo time? Bathroom break."

Actually, I'm kinda wondering, did the child inside Martin die because it got assigned 12 pages of math test prep practice as homework during spring break like my sixth grader?? Check the second verse:

Why were you always inside
On days when the weather was fine
And while we were running around
You were nowhere to be found.

Oh yes, this is soooo about standardized testing. Those poor children are dying inside because they're trapped inside on nice days wishing that No. 2 pencils had ne'er been born.

Final Grade: D- (and that's only cos I feel bad giving out F's when someone tried their best.)

9. Soft Touch/Raw Nerve: My 9-year-old son Mr. T's comment upon hearing this track was simply, "This is like Depeche Mode in the psychedelic '60s." I admire the risks DM takes in this track, and like many of the songs, the chorus shines. When they did this live on David Letterman a few weeks ago, the song seemed to have an overall nice vibe. But there is something getting lost in translation for me on this one and I can't quite put my finger on it. Perhaps it's that by the time it ends, I'm actually ready for that final note. And ready to stop hearing the words soft, touch, raw, and nerve.

Final Grade: C+

Boys in skunk hats do it better.

10. Should Be Higher: Gahan/Uenala's final collaboration on Delta Machine is a winner. It's everything that even the most curmudgeonly "They're still nothing without Alan Wilder" Depeche Mode fan has to admit works. A Quietus review of this song put it best:

There's now no doubt that Delta Machine is the the darkest and most violent Depeche Mode material in years. Lyrically, the title and lyrics of holes in infected arms and lies, succumbing to bliss and so on suggest another addition to the DM canon of songs that might be about smack, or love, or both."

Why would the reviewer say that? Oh, how about these lines:

You should be higher
I'll take you higher
Don't be afraid
You'll just have to pray

Final Grade: A

11. Alone: I've read Dracula more times than should be legal--I'm talking several hundred times--and when I first heard this track, I was reminded of a line the Count says in chapter two after Jonathan Harker arrives at the castle: "I love the shade and the shadow and would be alone with my thoughts when I may."

"Alone" is full of shadows and subtle musical layers. Verses like

There's a thin grey line
Between the black and the white
It's evidently hard to find at night

...are sung with a dark, slightly menacing quality. This is hands down my favorite track on the album. I've already listened to it 273 times in the past few days (and no, do not ask how I've managed to do that since I just got the CD on Tuesday, mmkay?)

Final Grade: A+

I'm coming for you...

12. Soothe My Soul: Yeah, if you click on that link, get ready for some NSFW-ness in the video. Also, the video proves that the lyrics are not, as I and some of my Depeche Mode sisters joked, about Martin Gore having the munchies and really wanting a bag of Doritos.

As for the song itself, it's aggressive, it's sinister, it's sexy, it's disturbing--what IS this really about, Martin Gore?--and it's also ridiculously catchy. With lyrics like, "I'm coming for you, when the sun goes down," we might need Dracula to show up for this track, too.

Final Grade: A

13. Goodbye: Thirteen records. Thirteen songs. The thirteenth track titled "Goodbye." It's enough to spark mass speculation that this album is the final curtain call for Depeche Mode. If so, what a ride it's been and what a masterpiece of a cowboy song to end on. The guitars bring the blues like no other track on Delta Machine, and verses like...

If you see me walking
Through the golden gates
Then turn around stop talking
Stop and hesitate
I'll be waiting up there
With my fate in the air
For you

...are sung with such a deliberate, dark finality. C'mon, you need to sing along with me:

Wait, was I talking smack about Martin Gore cos of "The Child Inside?" Martin, I take it all back. I bow down to your mastery--and to whatever the heck is going on in your mind that leads to songs like this. Also, I wish I'd recorded Mr. T hearing this for the first time. He was all, "Oh my gawd. Oh my gawd, I have to learn to play this song on my guitar."

Final Grade: A+

And with that, Delta Machine comes to a close.

Is it their best album ever? The best since Violator forever changed the alternative electronic game 23 years ago? I'm never one to compare their records--it's like comparing Tom Selleck's style in Magnum P.I. to the modern day. No one would do that 'stache and chest hair now, but it was the ishtar back then--and Violator is not my favorite Mode album anyway.

I just know that there's something in Delta Machine that works, and for the most part, it works for me. But it will not work for all listeners. Let's be real, Depeche Mode does not do it for everyone, and not every Depeche Mode fan likes every song. And that's OK. But it's an album that makes you sit up and listen, and its influence will surely trickle down to all Coldplay-style bands who admit they've been influenced by Mode. And ask me in a year and maybe I'll be like, "I know I hated "The Child Inside" but now I think it's genius!" (Yes, it's a longshot. No, Martin Gore gives no f***s what I think.)

Overall Grade: I gave 7 A's out of 13 tracks, 3 B's, 2 C's and 1 D. So we'll say it gets a B.

Now on to getting concert tickets. I will not be mad if some nice, generous reader surprised me with some...a girl can dream!

Car Vs. Motorcycle: And Then I Saw a Body Flying Through the Air

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Mon, 25 Mar 2013 06:30:00 +0000

I was trying to have a lazy Sunday afternoon on the sofa--sitting next to an open window, feeling the warm breeze, watching "Dial M For Murder," and sipping pink lemonade...and then came the horrific sound of brakes screeching and metal hitting metal.

I turned my head in time to see a body flying through the air, landing in the street right under my window. I screamed, grabbed my phone, dialed 911 as I ran downstairs--yelling for my husband at the same time that I heard the operator's voice, "911 emergency."

The man on the motorcycle had flown 20 feet from the car and his now-smashed bike. He was horribly still and my husband rushed to him as I screamed into the phone, "We need paramedics right now" and gave our address. I looked over to the car. No driver was inside.

Where was the driver? We are used to hit and runs in our neighborhood. Was this another one?

"Is he moving? Is he conscious? Is there any visible injury?" the operator asked.

No, not moving cos my husband told him to remain still. He's conscious--my husband's right next to him, asking him his name and age and the phone number of someone to call. He's answering but his eyes are closed. No, no blood. No, we won't let him move.

My husband knelt on his right side of the cyclist, and one of my neighbors was now on his other side. "He's 40," my neighbor yelled out. "He's 40," I yelled into the phone. "He knows how old he is."

One of his black, soft leather half boots had flown off as his body soared through the air. It lay in the grass next to the curb... and then I saw a woman crying uncontrollably. "Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. Is he alright? I didn't mean to hit him..."

Not a hit and run. She better be glad this man isn't dead, I thought to myself. I saw my husband, still kneeling right next to the man on the street pulling out his phone. I leaned over them and realized the man was giving him a phone number.

"He wants me to call his wife," my husband said as he dialed.

Dozens of neighbors poured out of their homes to watch the scene. Two abuelitas began praying in Spanish. I and another neighbor realized we needed to slow and direct the traffic because otherwise, some speeding car would barrel up the hill and run over the downed cyclist, my husband, and our neighbor.

The paramedics arrived in 7 minutes with a fire truck that they used to block off the street and two ambulances. As they put a neck brace on the cyclist and gently rolled him onto a flat board and carried him to a stretcher, they kept saying over and over, "Thank God he had on a helmet..otherwise he'd be dead."

Indeed, he had on a helmet, a protective jacket, gloves, and special glasses. Not an amateur motorcyclist.

LAPD officers showed up 10 minutes later. Everyone on my blocked eavesdropped as the cops interrogated the driver.

At one point she pointed to her car, which lay on top of part of the motorcycle, and began sobbing, "My daddy's going to be so mad about the car."

I swear, my entire neighborhood gave her a collective side eye.

I wasn't there to play police officer, judge, or jury, but I do know we've twice petitioned the City of Los Angeles to make the intersection a four-way stop. Everyone agrees it's dangerous, but we've twice been denied.

In the meantime, slow down, people. It shouldn't need saying but speeding to wherever you need to go can have very real consequences. Suck it up and be a few minutes late, or you'll be crying in front of some cops, wondering if you've paralyzed a man in the prime of his life.

The Last Marathoner

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Mon, 18 Mar 2013 06:00:00 +0000

This morning I rose before dawn, slipped on my running shoes, and headed out the door, ready for the 28th annual Los Angeles Marathon. My role in today's race was vastly different than it has been for the past five years. Today I wasn't out on the race course as a runner, I was there as a volunteer.

Why volunteer instead of marathoner? Last August I landed on the "injured and depressed runner" list because of major issues with my Achilles. By January I was feeling pretty good and worked my way up to four mile runs...and probably pushed it too hard, because now I'm back to ice and painkillers. Sometimes it hurts so much it wakes me up at night.

But my running club, the Los Angeles Leggers, has been very good to me over the years--if you want to run a marathon, they'll get you over the finish line--so instead of spending race day moping over not being able to run, I wanted to encourage other people who were on their journey to marathon status, while also hooking them up with water, orange slices, and smiles. About 10 of us manned a tent on Sunset Boulevard, just past mile seven. And truly, it was a wonderful, albeit bittersweet experience.

As a part of the race, I've never seen the road go from empty to filled with wheelchair racers:

I don't usually see the elite women in full stride:

And here's what it looked like when the elite men passed us:

Elite runners aside, what inspires me about running is that anyone can do it. I cheered for people like Paul, a 70-year-old legacy runner who'd been recently hit by a car. He was beaming at mile seven and just happy to be out there.

Then there's Rosa, who mentors for both the L.A. Leggers and Students Run LA, which trains teens to run the marathon. She was one of my mentors in my first training season and she's still going strong!

And Sarge, a veteran who carries his flag on every L.A. Leggers training run and during marathons is the epitome of "don't give up."

My sons got out there and cheered, too. Mr. T (as you can see in the video above) was a skateboarding cheer machine, and Mr. O maintained his laid-back middle schooler vibe while banging those noisemakers together.

As the hours passed, the number of marathoners--whether you run, walk, or C-walk your way to the finish, you're a marathoner--began to slow to a trickle and LAPD motocycles began zooming past, signaling that the street would soon re-open to traffic.

The last marathoners I saw on the course were these two lovely ladies, one of whom has special needs.

What an honor to get to cheer for them and all the others who bravely attempted a physical feat that less than 1 percent of Americans ever achieve.

I'll admit that I started crying after these two passed by. I love running so much, and it had become such a central part of my life, so to not be able to do it...and to know that I would not be crossing the finish line 19 miles away, was terribly sad for me.

But there was no time for maudlin thoughts. The cleanup crew came along, sweeping away any evidence that 24,000 people had just traveled down the road.

And in mere moments, Silver Lake was Hipstervania...

...with Mr. T on his skateboard, watching an escaped balloon float into the heavens. Till next year, LA Marathon, till next year.

Retaliation Nation: Sometimes I'm Afraid to Speak Out Against Crazy, Racist, Unjust Behavior

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Sun, 17 Mar 2013 06:27:00 +0000

I'd blame it all on Mercury being in retrograde, except crazy, racist--or crazy and racist--seems to cross my path on the regular. However, despite the regularity, I still don't know whether it's better to speak up or if it's better to just be quiet and go along with the behavior.

We tell kids to stand up and not be a bystander when they see bullying behavior occurring, but in the real world where people are liable to do anything, we all know speaking up can come with consequences.

On Friday I rode the city bus with a woman who began praising Christopher Dorner because, as she put it, now white people are on notice that "we black people ain't gonna take your racist shit no more."

I just sat there trying not to engage with her...I was afraid to flat out disagree with her about Dorner because what if she was truly nuts and decided that she was the one chosen by his ghost to take Dorner's revenge plot to the next level? What if she had a knife and stabbed me? I know, it sounds TOTALLY paranoid that my mind went there, but I was raised hearing about my mom's experience of walking past a crazy dude who ended up stabbing the two girls walking a few yards behind her simply because he thought the girls were laughing at him--they weren't, they were sharing a funny story about something else.

Truly, you never know what the heck is going on with people and what will set them off, so I hoped this woman on the bus would just lose interest and shut up--or else get off the bus at the very next stop--but nooo...she settled comfortably into her seat and decided to dig into another topic. As I recounted on Twitter:

And then she says, "And my grandmama was full on white. But I don't claim white people. I don't tell people I'm white..." Me? Uh, okay...
— Liz Dwyer (@losangelista) March 15, 2013

She replies: U look kinda white. Me: *blank stare*. Her: U got white people in your family tree? Me: As at matter of fact, my dad is Irish.
— Liz Dwyer (@losangelista) March 15, 2013

She says: "Oh so your daddy was a RAPIST just like all the old slavemasters back in the day raping black women. That's so sad for you."
— Liz Dwyer (@losangelista) March 15, 2013

So I just said: "Actually no, my parents have been married for nearly 50 years." Her mouth clean fell open: "Oh? Oh...that's different..."
— Liz Dwyer (@losangelista) March 15, 2013

She didn't say another word. Who knew saying a black woman and white man being married for nearly 50 years could shut ish down like that?
— Liz Dwyer (@losangelista) March 15, 2013

Fortunately I only had to ride with her for a couple more minutes before my bus stop came up. I was so relieved to get off. I had all these things I wanted to say to her--I didn't tell her how inappropriate her comments were, that all white men aren't rapists, and that Dorner is not a hero. I wanted to, but I kept my mouth shut. Why? Fear. What will this person who seems "off" do if I speak up?

Tonight at the grocery store, I couldn't keep silent about the behavior of a couple of strangers.

Two guys in their early 20s were standing uncomfortably close to me in the checkout line. How close? As the cashier rang my stuff up, these guys were less than a half-step to my left. Even my own sons don't stand that dang close to me in the checkout line. But I tolerated it because of the maxim that when people are willing to break social and cultural norms--and not standing all up on someone in line is one--then you know they're not all "there."

Yet when it was time to pay, I'd had enough. I didn't feel comfortable with them standing THISCLOSE to me, watching me swiping my debit card in the machine and entering my pin number--I don't need another fraud alert coming from my bank anytime soon. So I asked them very nicely if they could move back a little bit...and they lost it.

Next thing I knew, they were calling me a "fucking fat black bitch," told me I'm a nobody and "You fucking wish we were with you, you fat black bitch" and on and on and on. I was buying potato chips for my sons and these guys spied 'em as the cashier was putting them in a bag, so I got, "Go buy some more potato chips, you fat bitch."

The cashier told them they had indeed been standing too close to me, but because she was black, they didn't take that too kindly. They proceeded to say:

"I guess you black people really do stick together." And then they proceeded to swear at both of us till security escorted them out.
— Liz Dwyer (@losangelista) March 17, 2013

They were then waiting for me in the parking lot and cursed and harassed me till I got in my car and left.

Because I've been called far worse things than what those guys said I used to actually pride myself on my ability to never cry--when I was in high school, one of my goals was to cultivate such a degree of detachment that I'd feel nothing at all--but the downside of that is when you harden yourself as a protection against hurt and pain, when you make feeling nothing your goal, it becomes impossible to truly love or feel love.

I've worked really hard over the years to get past such a misguided survival skill, and so leaving the store parking lot, I managed to drive only a couple of blocks before I had to pull over because I was crying.

I spoke up about behavior that was violating my personal space and got verbally assaulted for it. And for every instance that I go out on a limb and speak up, there too many others that I don't. Fear of just such retaliation keeps me from speaking up.

This afternoon at my local park, for example, I watched a mom sitting in the bleachers at the baseball field slap her toddler and yell, "you better sit your stupid fucking ass down...god I wish you weren't fucking born"--all because the child was having a hard time sitting still next to her.

I didn't do or say anything and none of the other moms sitting there made a move or said anything, either. Sure, we all gave each other the undercover "Girl, did you just see that?" eye, but none of us wanted to risk getting cussed out or physically threatened. We were bystanders.

When I don't speak up, it really weighs on my conscience. I tell myself that I don't want to be on my death bed feeling like I was a coward in the face of behavior that degrades another person's humanity. I don't want to turn into the equivalent of one of those people who never calls the cops simply because she's scared someone who's doing something wrong might find out who dialed 911.

I really wonder, where should I--where do you?--draw the line between personal safety and standing up for what's just and right?

When Your Kid Gets His First Pimple

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Sun, 10 Mar 2013 08:17:00 +0000

Ah, parenting milestones. I've seen 12-year-old Mr. O's first smile, first word, first steps, and first day of school. But now ishtar is happening that I've never seen on any of those those cute little "My baby's first..." kinds of lists.

My baby got his first pimple today.

Yes, I know he's 12-years-old. Yes, he's still my baby. Yes, I unwittingly made Mr. O a target of 9-year-old Mr. 's T's teasing by giving him a hug while saying, "Aww, mommy's baby got his first pimple..."

Sure enough, a few hours later, O and T were outside playing basketball and in the midst of some mutual trash talking when I overheard T hiss, "Aww, mommy's baby got his first pimpllllllle."

I told T that he should be empathetic, think about how one day he, too, will have a juicy pimple between his eyebrows...even though, as far as pimples go, it's not that big, it's large enough that tonight O asked if I had anything that could make it go away instantly. To which I replied, "If I did, we'd be...

Yeah, we would be paid. I would market Los Angelista's Magical Pimple Disapperation Formula all over the world. Mr. O could be the president. "I'm not just the president, I'm a user..." Alas, I had no time to contemplate how the cash would be rolling in because O decided to pose the ultimate question of the teenage years: "Should I pop it?"

"It might scar your skin," I told him.

"That's OK, scars add character," he replied.

"No. I don't think it's a good idea. You'll put more bacteria on your face by trying to pop it."

"Why can't I pop my own pimple?" he whined. "It's myyyy pimple, you know."

Really kid? We're gonna argue over whether or not you can pop a damn pimple? So I was like...

I know every teen pops their pimples but I'm not ready for all that yet.

"Popping it will hurt...a LOT," I replied. Cos there's nothing like the fear of pain to scare a child.

He claims he's not going to school in the morning if the pimple is still there. We'll see about that.

In Search of Spiritual Awakening...and a Chai

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Mon, 04 Mar 2013 00:59:00 +0000

It is one hour till sunset.

My youngest son, 9-year-old Mr. T is sitting next to me devouring some crackers and salsa. "I think I'm going to still be hungry after this," he just told me. I gave him my best side-eye in return.

I haven't eaten or had anything to drink since I took my last sip of water just before sunrise at 6:20 AM this morning. It's the annual Baha'i Fast. From March 2nd to March 20th Baha'is (those who aren't pregnant, nursing, sick, elderly, or under the age of 15) don't eat or drink anything between sunrise and sunset.

Like Yom Kippur or Ramadan, you give up something--food--as part of a quest for spiritual awakening and cleansing your soul of attachment to worldly things. Except I'm sort of failing at the spiritual awakening thing right now. I feel like Dracula waiting to spring out of his coffin the minute the sun dips below the horizon. I want to eat some crackers and salsa. And chai. And some really tasty grape tomatoes that are in my refrigerator...and I want to go to the Veggie Grill over by ArcLight on Sunset. And then I want to go to House of Pies and eat dessert.

Prayer + hunger...will I reach spiritual nirvana before sunset?

A Year After Trayvon Martin, My Sons Are Still 'Suspicious'

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Tue, 26 Feb 2013 08:01:00 +0000

Hoodies. This morning Los Angeles was a chilly 46 degrees and both of my sons, 9-year-old Mr. T and 12-year-old Mr. O pulled on hoodies.

All the kids around here wear them. In an attempt to raise money for their cash-strapped campus, Mr. O's middle school is even selling a special hoodie emblazoned with the school mascot. I think it's cute and was willing to plunk down $29 for it. He thinks it's "corny." He'd rather wear the plain blue hoodie required as part of the school uniform.

But of course, hoodies now represent something else in our culture. As my boys bounced out to the garage, playfully complaining about "why do I have to go to school?" I walked behind them, all too aware that today was the anniversary of the murder of another black boy in a hoodie, Trayvon Martin.

As we pulled out of the garage, I told them. "So today is the first anniversary of Trayvon Martin's murder."

"Is that guy that shot him...what's his name?" Mr. T began.

"You mean George Zimmerman," O helpfully filled in.

"Yeah. George Zimmerman," T continued. "Is he in jail?"

"He's in jail," I said. "But his case hasn't gone to trial. He could still be acquitted."

They were outraged that the case is still pending, and that Zimmerman isn't already serving a life sentence.

"We have to let the process of the justice system play itself out," I told them.

"Yeah, the same justice system that stops and frisks black men all the time for nothing," Mr. O said as he got out of the car at his school.

Twenty minutes later I said goodbye to Mr. T and I felt yet again for Trayvon's mother. We never know whether the goodbye you're saying is the last goodbye you'll have.

After kissing them goodnight tonight, I reflected on something I wrote last year for my day job about how Trayvon could have been either of my boys:

I don’t think my sons are safe anywhere, and I often feel extreme anxiety over what might happen to them when they walk out the door each morning. But my boys don’t believe they can be gunned down like Trayvon. "I don’t think anything like this would happen to us because of the place we live," my 8-year-old told me last night after watching updates about the investigation on the evening news. "We’ve never heard of anybody getting killed on our street."

I'm glad he believes he's safe, but Trayvon was in a gated community, not an urban ghetto. Ruha Benjamin, assistant professor of sociology and African American studies at Boston University, says middle-class black Americans cannot "buy our way out of racial violence." Benjamin, who has two boys of her own, says the reality is that our sons, "no matter how well-dressed, how well-spoken, might be in the wrong gated community with the wrong bag of threatening Skittles and get mowed down by someone who has decided, essentially, they are out of place."

This is still true. A year later, it is still true. My sons are still suspicious. Ruha's boys are, too. As long as racism reigns over America. No black boy is safe.

Hoodies.

Nope, Still Not Over a 9-Year-Old Girl Being Called a Cunt

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Mon, 25 Feb 2013 08:56:00 +0000

Sunday night during the 85th annual Academy Awards show my 9-year-old son, Mr. T, was pretty jealous of one of his peers, 9-year-old Quvenzhané Wallis, the star of Beasts of the Southern Wild.

"So wait, she's the same age as me and she could win Best Actress?" he asked. I nodded my head yes. "She must be really good....are those statues made out of solid gold? She's sooooo lucky."

Lucky.

Only a few minutes after we scrunched our noses at "the Hunger Games girl" beating Quvenzhané for a performance that is not Katniss, a staffer at the Onion posted its now infamous tweet:

After Twitter erupted, the tweet came down and this morning CEO Steve Hannah issued an apology:

"No person should be subjected to such a senseless, humorless comment masquerading as satire. The tweet was taken down within an hour of publication. We have instituted new and tighter Twitter procedures to ensure that this kind of mistake does not occur again. In addition, we are taking immediate steps to discipline those individuals responsible. Miss Wallis, you are young and talented and deserve better. All of us at The Onion are deeply sorry."

I appreciate the apology--although they needed to apologize to her parents, too--but 24 hours later, I'm still bothered by the whole situation.

I'm not over how some folks decided it was time to school those of us who were offended on the definition of satire. For your perusal, here's the Oxford dictionary's definition:

"the use of humour, irony, exaggeration, or ridicule to expose and criticize people's stupidity or vices, particularly in the context of contemporary politics and other topical issues."

You want to read satire? Check out Jonathan Swift's "A Modest Proposal." It's a masterpiece of satire and--shocker--no one gets called a cunt.

Calling a little girl a name like that isn't satire. It's vile misogyny that dives headfirst into the waters of racism. If you're questioning whether it's racism, ask yourself if young white actresses of Quvenzhané's caliber have ever been disrespected in such a manner.

I'm also not over how folks tried to silence those of us who were not having it. One guy had the nerve to reply to me that some women he knows like being called that word. That response is right up there with "some of my best friends are black."

And still others are saying that if the Onion censors itself with these so-called tighter Twitter procedures, free speech as we know it will end...because the fate of free speech and democracy depends on the Onion being able to call 9-year-old girls cunts, obviously.

I am all for free speech, but words are power. And anyone who's ever picked up a Spiderman comic (or read Voltaire) knows,"With great power comes great responsibility." So you can say whatever you want but ultimately, you are responsible for the consequences of your words.

Why is that so hard to understand? Which brings me back to what I said after I first saw the tweet:

Dear @theonion Please fire the person/people who thought it was cool to call Quvenzhané Wallis such a despicable, disrespectful word. Now.
— Liz Dwyer (@losangelista) February 25, 2013

Is the discipline over at the Onion going to involve someone getting fired? When there is no real consequence, folks feel free to "go there" again. Of course, there will be no real consequence if this is a "Dude, you got us SO many page views with your controversial tweet...Don't worry about anything," situation. Hmm...I think we should all email Steve Hannah (shannah@theonion.com) and ask him to be more specific about what exactly he means by "discipline." Spell it out for me, please.

As for young Quvenzhané, go see her movie. Buy the DVD when it comes out. Support her with the only thing Hollywood cares about in the end--your money. It'll be worth it cos as even my son could tell, she is really good.

Reflections on the Day After Our Black Superhero-Land Inauguration

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Tue, 22 Jan 2013 18:58:00 +0000

My husband missed most of the Inauguration festivities because he was working, so after he arrived home last night, he asked me, "What did you think? Was it as good as Obama's first one?"

I told him it was basically one day spent in Black Superhero-land, so how could I not appreciate it? We had slain civil rights activist Medgar Evers' widow, Myrlie Evers-Williams—who is amazing in her own right—giving the invocation. And of course, I just had to ask my sons, “Have you ever heard about Medgar Evers in school?” Nope.

President Obama looked both super happy and like he’s ready to pull the gloves off and get to work. Then there was Mrs. Obama, looking like a stone cold FOX all day long and giving the same look I give John Boehner every time he opens his mouth:

Sasha and Malia were adorable and proved why they’ll one day be my future daughters in law. Jigga looked like he wanted to grab the mic and say YUUP, and Beyonce—who did not show up wearing a onesie, thank gawd—had her lacefront flowing, ripped out her earpiece, and ~~SANG~~ LIPSYNCHED. Sigh.

And it was all on the Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. Day—which, as I pointed out to my sons, was not a holiday when I was their age, and many folks still don't believe it should be one.

"But what about Obama, was his speech good?" my husband wanted to know.

I suppose that depends on what you believe in and what you expected. I doubt Cornel West and Tavis Smiley cheered. And folks who are still longing for Mitt Romney to be the POTUS, well, I'm sure some of them probably spent yesterday either at the gun shop buying more ammo for the revolution they believe is coming...or drafting conspiracy theory emails to send around to their friends. Can't you see them—Notice how they kept saying Barack H. Obama instead of saying "Hussein. And Beyonce lipsynched. I bet Obama didn't really say the Oath of Office, either."

As for me, much of what Obama said touched on themes dear to my heart: perseverance, coming together in pursuit of a common cause, and justice. While I don’t get all into the philosophical nobility of the Founding Fathers—I’m too aware that they didn’t mean “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” for the black folks in my family tree—these particular lines really resonated with me:

"Today we continue a never-ending journey, to bridge the meaning of those words with the realities of our time. For history tells us that while these truths may be self-evident, they have never been self-executing; that while freedom is a gift from God, it must be secured by His people here on Earth."

Indeed, that whole line about "self-evident" doesn't mean "self-executing" had me testifying to the television. And then towards the end when Obama said...

"You and I, as citizens, have the power to set this country's course. You and I, as citizens, have the obligation to shape the debates of our time — not only with the votes we cast, but with the voices we lift in defense of our most ancient values and enduring ideals."

…I wholeheartedly believe in that kind of call to action.

At the end of the day, a speech is a speech. Pretty words can inspire and touch your heart—and as Manti Te’o knows, make you fall in love. But it’s what you do after the speech that really counts.

We can talk a good game about all of the challenges and issues we're facing in our communities, but what are we each doing to ensure that we’re not just out to make our individual lives better, but are working to make society better?

As I watched Obama speak, I also found myself thinking—as I frequently do on days that hit that sweet spot of emotion, race, justice, and equality—about my black ancestors, particularly my maternal great grandmother, who was born in 1879 and died in 1979 when I was 7-years-old. That's me with her in the picture above when I was just a few months old.

Although she was born after slavery, her parents—and most black adults in her life—had been slaves. Of course I didn't think to ask about it when I was a child, but now I wonder what she experienced living in post Reconstruction-era South after the Civil War and whether she even dreamed of the amount of social change she saw in her lifetime. I wonder if the change she experienced gave her hope that we would actually get even closer to being a nation that recognizes the inherent nobility and unity of all people.

I wonder if she ever imagined a black man would ever get elected as President—not once, but twice. Back when Jesse Jackson used to run for President, I thought it was cool, but I never thought he’d actually win.

Thinking about my great-grandmother’s life is also a reminder to not get fooled into thinking racism has disappeared just because Obama got re-elected, or because a bunch of black folks were on my TV looking good during the Inauguration. After all, four years before my great-grandmother was born, Blanche Bruce was elected as a senator from Mississippi. That didn’t make her life any easier. So yep, Beyonce may have gorgeous emerald jewelry and all that, but the average black male in Los Angeles still only has a 40 percent chance of graduating from high school.

Which brings me back to how we live in such a “I gotta get mine, you gotta get yours” time, but what we really need to do is make deliberate choices that move us ever closer to unity, peace, and prosperity for everyone. Those solutions aren’t all rooted in politics or policy, either. True change is rooted in relationships—it’s rooted in the heart. When you truly love someone else and care deeply about what happens to them, then you’ll work for the things that will make this nation—and this world—whole again.

A Conversation With My 11-Year-Old Son About N-Word Use at School

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Fri, 11 Jan 2013 07:19:00 +0000

Tonight my 11-year-old sixth grader, Mr. O, told me some LAPD officers came to his middle school and talked to his class about hate crimes. He pulled a stapled handout out of a folder and passed it over to me. On it I read:

Los Angeles Police Department

Stop Hate and Respect Everyone (S.H.A.R.E.)

Tolerance

Vocabulary List

Indeed, the handout has definitions of a hate crime--as well as definitions of a dozen other terms--on the front, the definition of tolerance on the back, and the Universal Declaration of Human Rights on the second page.

My eyes lingered on the definitions for race and ethnicity. They define race as, "A group of people classed by their customs, traditions, and community interests, among other traits. For example, Asians, African-Americans, Caucasians, and Hispanic/Latinos."

And then they define ethnicity as "A connection to a group of people classed according to common racial, national, tribal, religious, traditional practices. For example, Mexican, African-American, Chinese, and Cherokee.

Something wasn't sitting right to me about these definitions--is it that it's been awhile since I've seen our social construct defined on paper? But before I could reflect on what exactly that was, I realized that Mr. O was briefly recounting how the officers had talked to the students about Rodney King and the LA Riots and how you can get arrested for a hate crime. And then he said--in an incredibly sarcastic tone, "But if kids call me the n-word at school, nothing's going to happen to them."

This gave me pause because since the release of "Django Unchained", I've heard plenty of debate and discussion about the n-word. The worst was overhearing two well-heeled white women in the cafe at the Barnes and Noble at the Grove talk about how "superbly witty" Samuel L. Jackson's mocking refusal to answer questions from a journalist was...unless the journalist would say the word instead of saying n-word.

We adults have so many intellectual arguments about whether to use--or not use--the word, as well as who gets a pass with it. But what about the experiences of my son and how it is used in his school? And then I realized we had not had this conversation before--I had a moment of panic where I realized that he's hearing the word at school but it's January and he hadn't said anything about it. I decided to ask him a few questions and type up his responses:

Los Angelista: How many times a day do you hear the n-word?

Mr. O: Probably every day. There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t hear it. I hear older kids and kids in my grade say it.

LA: What is the race or ethnic background of most of the kids you hear using it?

Mr. O: Mostly white or Latino but sometimes Asian.

LA: So they call kids who aren’t black the n-word?

Mr. O: Yeah. They use it like how they’re saying 'what’s up, dude?' Except they use the n-word.

LA: What about the black kids?
Mr. O: Some black kids do say it. I don’t know if they’re clueless and don’t know what it means or what--or they’re saying it to act cool.

LA: Why do kids say it to act cool?

Mr. O: Maybe they hear rappers use it—like Lil Wayne uses it in his songs.

LA: Does it bother you to hear it at school?

Mr. O: Yes.

LA: Do you ever tell anybody?

Mr. O: Yeah, I tell adults when it’s directed at me but they just tell the kids to stop and don't really do anything about it. Like for example today there was a fight by the lunch tables and there was this office staffer right in front of the fight. She didn’t do anything. She just sat there and acted like she didn’t see it and the kids were using the n-word and cussing a lot during the fight.

LA: So in 5th grade when that kid called you the n-word, he got in trouble? If that happened this year where a kid called you the n-word, would he get in trouble?

Mr. O: No. At least not severe trouble.

LA: Do you think they should get in big trouble?

Mr. O: Yeah. Maybe detention or community service.

LA: What does the n-word mean?

Mr. O: It dates back to slavery where white slave owners would use it to demonize black slaves. They wanted to make them not as human so they called them that.

LA: But what about the people who say you drop the “er” and change it to “a” to claim ownership and make it a term of endearment?

Mr. O: That’s not true. It’s the same meaning and it still has the same effect. And honestly to me that’s just an excuse to say it.

LA: Have you ever said it?

Mr. O Giving me the most outraged look ever: No. And I can't believe you'd think I'd say it.

He decided to go to bed after that...and he left me worrying about the effects of hate speech that we tell ourselves isn't hate speech. We're raising a generation who thinks nothing of using the word--and they learned it from us.

What would happen if his school decided to actively help kids eliminate the word--and any other offensive language--from their vocabularies. What would need to happen at that school? What would that process look like?

On the Seventh Anniversary of My Brother’s Suicide: There’s Acceptance, Not Closure.

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Wed, 09 Jan 2013 01:16:00 +0000

“People always say you have to reach a point of closure. When would that be?” my mom said to me this morning. “The person is not here and you can accept it, but it’s not closure,” she added. Today’s the seventh anniversary of my brother taking his life and tears ran down my cheeks as I listened to her voice coming through the phone.

Those tears carried sadness for my brother and how I wish daily that he had not made the decision to pull a trigger and end his life. I cry for my parents, too, especially my mom. Sometimes when I’m watching my sons play, I think about how it would feel to be in her shoes. My brother was my mom’s baby and she had all the hopes and dreams for him that I have for my own boys—that any mother has for her children.

Acceptance does not erase memories, either. Some memories I have are lighthearted ones that make me smile. Over the holidays my 9-year-old annoyingly teased my 11-year-old over his possibly-maybe liking a girl. I laughed to myself remembering how angry my brother got when I was being that sort of little sister. I remembered how much I delighted in embarrassing him when a girl he liked came over.

Some memories are bittersweet. On New Year’s Day I went with my family to see The Hobbit. “There’s Christopher Lee,” said my youngest son excitedly during the scene with the famous actor who plays Sauruman. “Just like your brother’s name.” I sat next to him in the theater, feeling the tears welling in my eyes, remembering the moment when I was a child and noticed that same thing

Still other memories are full of unhappiness. I remember one of the last times we talked on the phone. His ability to dream big—and often grandiose—dreams was in full effect. He told me that he was thinking about coming to California for a visit, and maybe he’d move to Los Angeles like me.

Charismatic as always, I could hear in his voice how much he needed someone to believe in him—to tell him that he could do anything he wanted. But after years of seeing him struggle with addiction and incarceration, I made the sort of noncommittal remarks we all make when someone we know is saying things we, deep down, think are ridiculous.

We never had an in-person conversation about those hopes and dreams. By the time I headed to the Midwest to visit my family for two weeks in December 2005, he wasn’t speaking to anyone. And so I returned to Los Angeles after the New Year without saying hello. A few evenings later my father called, his voice cracking with grief, telling me about my brother’s decision to put a gun to his head.

Seven years ago when I wrote about going to see his body at the funeral home, I knew I’d never forget it. And there is no closure on what I saw:

"We stood to the side of the stretcher and Mr. O'Neal, the funeral director pulled the sheet down to uncover the face and neck. I haven't seen my brother since 1996 and there was such a sense of time stopping. I was, in that moment, unaware of anyone else in the room. I found myself focusing on his hair...shorter than I'd ever seen it, slightly graying around the temples. His closed eyes were beginning to sink into their sockets. I could see the back of his head, misshapen now, and all of the huge threads where it had been sewn shut again. I will never forget that. No book I read, no song I listen to, no story I ever write will take away the image of those huge threads."

No, there is no closure on that.

Later this morning I was on the verge of tears again, and a friend sent me a text that helped so much: “Just want to let u know I’m thinking about you today… I will say prayers for your brother and of course your whole family as you remember him and your loss.”

I am grateful for those prayers. Indeed, I am always praying for the infinite progress of my brother’s soul. There is no do-over for him in this fleeting physical world. But in the next, the spiritual world, I pray that he is making progress and that his dreams—which are surely beyond what he ever imagined in this material existence, are coming true.

About Those Police Officers on LAUSD Campuses Today

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Tue, 08 Jan 2013 07:59:00 +0000

"Hey mom, there's a cop with a gun at my school now." Nine-year-old Mr. T casually dropped that little nugget of information into my lap tonight during halftime of the Notre Dame-Alabama national championship football game.

Today was his first day back after a long, three-week winter vacation and I wasn't exactly surprised by the increased police presence at the elementary schools--high schools already have officers around all the time-since in the wake of the Sandy Hook massacre. That said, it all feels a little like the reaction after 9/11 when every car driving into LAX would be stopped by law enforcement and we had that handy color-coded terror alert system--which never seemed to land on "green" for "low risk of terrorist attacks."

I wondered if having police offers with guns on campus made T feel like what happened in Newtown couldn't happen at his school.

"Did it make you feel safer?" I asked.

"Ehhh... No," he replied. And his reason why made me profoundly sad. "The cop might shoot us," T said.

While Alex Jones is ranting to Piers Morgan about his right to bear arms, our children wonder if someone who has pledged an oath to serve and protect will decide to open fire on campus. Is this what we really want?

Heavenly Father, It's Been Six Years Since My Last Physical

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Sun, 06 Jan 2013 08:28:00 +0000

Monday morning I'm heading over to UCLA to do something I haven't done in far too long: I'm getting an annual physical. Except--confession time--it's been six loooong years since I last had one.

EEK. I know, I know. It's terrible. I've already stoned myself on your behalf AND said four Hail Mary's as penance.

Sure, I went to the ER when I got into a car accident two years ago, and saw my doctor when I got strep throat last spring. When my Achilles tendon decided to get all inflamed last summer and decimate my running schedule, I went to see a doctor too. And I went to the doctor last month when I got my first-ever stye in my eye. But there has been no preventative care going on in my life other than not smoking, not drinking, eating fairly healthily, and worshiping at the altar of the sunblock gods.

I don't go to the doctor unless I'm desperate. With my Achilles, I'd been in pain for a month--such serious pain that I was SCARED to run--and since it didn't get better after that long, I figured I'd suck it up and drive over to Doctorville. But, I'm determined to take better care of myself in 2013 so I scheduled the first available appointment with my doctor.

I haven't been to the doctor in so long they sent me home with the "new patient questionaire." As I started filling it out, I realized why it's so easy for me to find something else to do other than getting a physical. I checked the "no" or "none" box on most of the laundry list of problems. No to osteoporosis, no to high blood pressure, no high cholesterol, to hemorrhoids. No to gout and no to asthma. No to irritable bowel syndrome, arthritis, and gallstones.

No to the whopping six questions about drinking, including, "Do you sometimes feel you need to cut down on your drinking?" and "Do you sometimes take a drink in the morning when you first get up?

Nope, never had a blood transfusion. No, have not had burning while urinating in the past month. Or ever, thank goodness. Nope, not shorter than I used to be. No rashes or weird moles. No nose bleeds.

But I am not out of the woods. I checked "yes" to allergies and hay fever--curse you, dust and pollen, curse you! And they want to know if I've had a headache in the past three months. Uh oh. Yes for that one. Also, in the health maintenance section they ask, "Have you had a tetanus shot to prevent lockjaw?" I have no idea. (That's exactly what I wrote in the answer space, too.)

Boys and girls, I'm going to be pretty unhappy if I have to get a freakin' tetanus shot tomorrow. Pfft, this annual physical thing is gonna be the WORST.

The Best New Year's Resolution for 2013

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Tue, 01 Jan 2013 08:16:00 +0000

Happy 2013!

At midnight last night my 9-year-old crowed with glee, "2012 is over and we are still alive! Take that Mayan prophecy!"Then he wondered, how long until someone else comes up with the next The World Will End date?

Good question.

While you're pondering that, I've been on vacation since December 22nd--which has been wonderful, but I didn't really start to relax until the day after Christmas. I don't think I'm mentally prepared to go back to work in the morning, especially since my sons don't go back to school until next Monday.

In any case, did you make some super ambitious resolutions for 2013? I've decided to retry 2011's failed resolution, which was to watch as much TV in my underwear as possible. I'm just not a big TV watcher so I failed at that before. But so far in 2013 I am winning at that one--there's a Tudors marathon on BBC right now and I have been watching it for three hours. Except not in my underwear. It is too cold for all that.

Sounds unambitious? Well, it was either that or recommit to sleeping more, exercising daily, not working too much, eating more kale, and reading a book a day. Oh, and being nice to people who try to touch my hair. All that sounds WAY too difficult right now. Ask me tomorrow and I may be down for all that. Like I said, I'm on vacation right now--I'm not trying to work too hard at this resolution thing.

However, I would be so thrilled if some folks I know would resolve to stop telling me why I should go see Django Unchained. I'm not at Tarantino fan and I'm not interested in his viewpoint on slavery.
For real, if I hear one more person explaining how Django Unchained is the most accurate depiction of slavery to ever hit the big screen my head may explode. How about read a book of slave narratives, like Bullwhip Days?

And before you point out that I'm sitting here watching the Tudors, which is laughably based on Henry VIII's reign--for example, homie never gets super huge on TV--I've read some good history books on the time, so I know what's what.

Hmm...I feel another resolution coming on: commit to independently investigating the truth in all areas of life. Yes, instead of relying on Tarantino to tell us what's going with slavery/black folks, read up on it yourself. Instead of taking the word of some education talking head that your local schools suck, go spend some time talking to teachers about what their days are like...see through your own eyes, and not through the eyes of others.

Let's make it rock, folks.

Goodbye Thirties

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Fri, 28 Dec 2012 08:51:00 +0000

It's the end of an era in Los Angelistastan.

In an hour I kiss 39-years-old goodbye and embrace The Age That Must Not Be Named When You Live in Los Angeles:

40.

Don't worry, there's no Elizabeth Bathory-style effort to stay young going on here. Instead, we're kinda already setting it off. As you can see from the photo to your left, I've never been one to shy away from a party. Also, is my mom a banger or what?

Instead of thinking about how much getting older sucks, I'm contemplating the alternative: If you're not getting older, that means you're dead and right now I'm totally fine with not hearing a banshee calling my name. Besides 9-year-old Mr T. is the DJ for my party tomorrow so he's running his setlist by me.

"What's that song that makes you cry every time you hear it?" he just asked.

"That would be Peter Schilling's 'Major Tom'" I replied.

"Yeah, I won't play that one for you...you don't want to cry in front of all your friends. Unless you really want to," he replied.

"Nah, I'm good," I said. "But I don't mind some Depeche Mode."

"How about some White Stripes instead?"

And then we had to have a conversation about whose birthday is going down tomorrow.

Earlier today Mr. T asked me what was the best thing that happened to me in my thirties.

"You were born," I told him.

And it's true. Just as Mr. O changed my twenties, Mr. T changed my thirties. Being a mom to both of my sons has been the best part of the past decade because they make me a better person--and we have a whole lot of fun together--although if they never had another piece of homework, I wouldn't be mad.

But T reminded me that I've also done lots of cool stuff like been to Australia, visited the Magic Castle a bunch of times--it had been an obsession since I moved to Los Angeles--and visited Hearst Castle, which I'd wanted to do since I was a kid.

Now that I think about it, in the past five years alone, I completely changed careers, stopped straightening my hair and let it grow out natural, and became a multiple-marathoner. I also saw Depeche Mode a bunch of times, met Martin Gore THREE times--more on that tomorrow--saw Prince FOUR times, and met my Eyecandy Crush of the Century, Orlando Bloom.

I'll stop there because I'm on vacation and no one wants to read some annoying "Look at how may awesome things I've done" list. Especially because I still haven't been to Paris, which is all kinds of effed up. So, dear 39-years-old, it's been real. See you on the other side.

Attention Wealthy Sadomasochists: Your (Maybe Satirical) Internship Awaits

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Thu, 13 Dec 2012 15:31:00 +0000

Have you heard about the skills gap? That phenomenon where folks don't have the skills employers supposedly need for jobs?

Well, not everyone believes the skills gap is real. The problem, they say, is actually that employers have unrealistic expectations for what one job position can accomplish. Hiring managers write job descriptions that no one can measure up to--the equivalent of "Be double jointed, speak four languages, AND a gourmet cook." Or, they want applicants to have a master's degree, 10+ years experience, and the starting salary will be $30,000--in San Francisco.

Sane people look at that sort of job description and say, pfft, step away from the crack pipe, homie. Then the employer wrings her hands and says, OMG, I can't find anyone for this job!

The Dalkey Archive Press may be on the cusp of becoming one of these hand-wringing employers because I can't fathom how they're possibly going to find someone to take the jobs they've posted on their website...oh wait, because it's not a job. It's an unpaid internship that could possibly/maybe lead to a job. Here's what's required:

1. You must "have already demonstrated a strong interest in literary publishing." Yeah, cos folks who have no interest are going to apply? Critical thinking, people

2. You need to be "very well read in literature in general and Dalkey Archive books in particular." That means if you have a dog-eared copy of 50 Shades of Grey, you can forget it.

3. You should be "highly motivated and ambitious." All of you Gen X slackers can start weeping into your old Nirvana t-shirts.

4. Also, be "determined to have a career in publishing and will sacrifice to make that career happen." Your firstborn child, stat.

But overall, not so bad, right? Sure, all the talk of sacrifices makes it sound like you're joining a cult instead of potentially finding a place to have an internship, but this kind of talk from businesses is not unusual in 2012. After all, they are people--and they want you to consider them as family. Family that may lay you off instead of retraining you for a new position, family that may decide to move your job oversees, but family nonetheless. Oh and family that will steal your pension. But I digress...

5. Next you must be "willing to start off at a low-level salary and work their way upwards." Clearly, your reward is the prestige of the Dalkey name on your resume, not money to pay your bills. I suggest that you come from a rich family or find a sugar daddy to pay your rent and car note cos clearly, Dalkey is not the one.

6. You should "possess multi-dimensional skills that will be applied to work at the Press." You better know how to fix the photocopier AND line edit, mmkay?

7. You should "look forward to undergoing a rigorous and challenging probationary period either as an intern or employee." What is it with folks and the word "rigorous?" It's become one of those 21st Century jargon words that's most often heard in education circles--"Our school boasts rigorous academics"--but it always reads like, "You should look forward to descending into Hell. Painfully."

9. You must also "want to work at Dalkey Archive Press doing whatever is required of them to make the Press succeed." Again, the Dalkey folks seem to lack critical thinking. Employees have an interest in making sure the press succeeds so it doesn't go under. If it goes under, the employee's job disappears. If it succeeds, they get a raise...oh wait, these positions are unpaid. Nevermind.

Now here's the real kicker...

10. "Do not have any other commitments (personal or professional) that will interfere with their work at the Press (family obligations, writing, involvement with other organizations, degrees to be finished, holidays to be taken, weddings to attend in Rio, etc.)" Well dang, I guess we know Lindsay Lohan isn't going to get this one. Also, does this mean Christmas is canceled, Mr. Scrooge?

After some more lecturing on how applicants must "know how to act and behave in a professional office environment with high standards of performance," Dalkey goes on to elaborate their grounds for dismissal.

"Any of the following will be grounds for immediate dismissal during the probationary period: coming in late or leaving early without prior permission; being unavailable at night or on the weekends; failing to meet any goals; giving unsolicited advice about how to run things; taking personal phone calls during work hours; gossiping; misusing company property, including surfing the internet while at work; submission of poorly written materials; creating an atmosphere of complaint or argument; failing to respond to emails in a timely way; not showing an interest in other aspects of publishing beyond editorial; making repeated mistakes; violating company policies. DO NOT APPLY if you have a work history containing any of the above."

The one that really gets me is "giving unsolicited advice about how to run things?" So Dalkey expects me to be a smart, multi-tasking, highly intelligent person who wants them to succeed and will sacrifice for them, but I"m supposed to keep my mouth shut if I see something going wrong? Yeah, I'll just go give The Cure's "Charlotte Sometimes" another listen because, depressingly, this is not unusual at businesses in our world.

Which is what makes it quite interesting that this morning Dalkey claims it's all some Jonathan Swift-style satire. Except pretty much everyone who read it took it as a real internship posting. How much do you want to bet that Dalkey gets thousands of applicants?

If You Live in Hipstervania, Is it Inevitable That Your Kid Will Become One?

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Sat, 01 Dec 2012 08:26:00 +0000

Forget the itchy-mcscratchy process of growing your own mustache for Movember. Nine-year-old Mr. T has discovered the ultimate in ironic facial hair: a bit of lip fur attached by a chain to a big pair of hipster glasses. We were over at Popkiller in Los Feliz earlier tonight and he glommed onto these glasses and plunked down $12 for them. "I'm gonna rock these every day," he told me as we strolled back to our car. Indeed, he has passed out on the couch and these glasses are on his face.

"You look like one of those annoying hipsters," 11-year-old Mr. O told him.

"DO NOT!" T yelled back. He was quite insulted by being called a hipster. "I just have my own style," he said.

That is true. He has always been particular about his appearance. We were out on Sunset Blvd. the other day--me walking the dog, him on his skateboard--and we ran into a friend. She said to him, "Let me check out your swag."

He showed her his stash of keychains--including a shamrock one that flashes the word "lucky"--hanging from his belt. He also wears clip-on bow ties with t-shirts and suspenders, and sticks Depeche Mode pins on his RUN DMC hat.

I guess I could force him to wear more average/conservative clothes but that would probably kill his spirit. I like that he has a creative outlet with his clothes and I have no problem with him having his own sense of style. That said, hipsters are pretty annoying. Maybe by the time he's an adult, there'll be some sort of post-hipster thing and I won't have to see him wearing a different pair of ironic glasses every day.

About That Time I Ate 20 Twinkies in One Sitting...

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Mon, 19 Nov 2012 01:14:00 +0000

Is a world without Twinkies upon us? The shelves at my local grocery store that used to be filled with packages of that icon of indestructible junk food--you know the joke, what will survive a nuclear apocalypse? Roaches and Twinkies--are bare. But chill out, America. With $68 million in sales so far this year, it's likely that somebody is going to buy the Twinkies brand.

If that can save some of those 18,000 jobs that were set to evaporate because Twinkies manufacturer Hostess couldn't figure out how to manage their company without giving the CEOs 80 percent raises, cool. But here's what I'm really wondering: Who exactly has been buying all those Twinkies and keeping Hostess afloat all these years?

I don't think I know anybody who eats Twinkies--at least they don't admit it--and I'm not among the masses of Twinkie eaters, either. My only moment of Twinkie consumption happened when I was 8-years-old and it was purely the result of me being a little sister who wanted to get her 17-year-old brother in trouble.

One afternoon I was rooting around in his room looking for evidence of his misbehavior and I discovered a 20-count box of Twinkies under his bed. BINGO! I knew for sure that if I went and told my mom that he had Twinkies under his bed, he'd be in big trouble.

You see, back in the 1970s and 1980s--waaaay before it became part of the mainstream--my mother was into reading labels, strongly against sugar and processed foods, and in favor of eating organic. There were no Oreos, no soda, no sugary cereals in our house. Everything was all natural--tofu, not Twinkies was on my mom's shopping list, and she was really strict about it. The upside of this was that I never had a cavity. The downside was that I'd go to my grandmother's house and try to drink an entire pitcher of grape Kool-Aid. It didn't taste that good, but forbidden fruits are always a bit sweeter, right?

Anyway, I popped the box open and decided to try one of the Twinkies. Eating one wouldn't damage my case against my brother. I figured 19 Twinkies was just as punishable an offense as 20. I carefully unwrapped the plastic casing and took a bite. It was all golden sponge cake and creamy goodness--sweet, but also light and airy--and so I ate another one...and then another...and another. Ahem, I ate every Twinkie in that box.

I slid the now empty box that had once held 20 Twinkies back under my brother's bed and went off to read a pilfered Richie Rich comic. After an hour or so, I had severe stomach cramps and I thought I might throw up, so I went to lie down. Later that day my mother remarked that I looked at bit green. I told her my stomach really hurt, but I couldn't divulge that it was due to my eating all those Twinkies.

That night my brother discovered that although his box of Twinkies was still under his bed, there was nothing inside. He was livid and came in my room to confront me. "I'm gonna go tell mom," he yelled at me in typical peevish teenager fashion. But I helpfully pointed out that although I'd eaten all his Twinkies, there was nothing he could do about it. He couldn't go tattle because he wasn't supposed to have them in the first place. The look on his face was SO priceless--if you have siblings, you know that look--and he vowed to exact his revenge. I dared him to sneak-buy another box of Twinkies since he was so tough.

After that I'd see Twinkies on grocery store shelves or in the lunch boxes of other kids at school and I'd be reminded of how ill they made me. By the time I was an adult, I'd figured out that all the stuff my mom was trying to tell us about junk food was absolutely right. Whichever company ends up buying Twinkies, I still won't be buying any. Twenty Twinkies in one sitting means I'm scarred for life.

If Obama DID Dye His Hair, Why Is That a Big Deal?

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Thu, 15 Nov 2012 07:05:00 +0000

Is President Obama a purchaser of Just For Men? Inquiring minds want to know!

It must be matter of national security. Whether he dyed his hair to get rid of the grey is apparently the hot question of the moment--at least it is according to the Washington Examiner. I am not an Examiner reader. However, ahem, CONFESSION: I troll around on the Daily Mail site to make myself laugh. They picked up the story and are all, maybe Obama does, maybe it's just lighting.

Hmm. This is less critical to the world than the endless soap opera of General Petraeus being the Tiger Woods of the military. So why am I writing about it? I don't know and frankly my dear, I don't give a Rhett Butler about it. It just fascinates me that women are expected to dye their hair but if men do it, OMG, it's the END OF THE WORLD.

If Obeezy dyes his hair, more power too him. Let the Rapture come on so we can find out who does his color. Besides, if he does, that means we have something else in common than being half black, half Irish people who believe that healthcare is a right, not a gift.

But you know who I would bet good money uses hair color? Texas Governor Rick Perry, the guy who was one of our potential saviors from the Hordes of Black and Latinos Who Want Gifts--at least until he couldn't remember three cabinet departments he'd eliminate if elected.

Look at that chocolate brown 'fro! Rick Perry could have a second career as a Hair Club For Men AND Just For Men spokesman. C'mon Examiner please find out the dirt on Perry's hair!

The State of Public Education According to an 11-Year-Old:

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Mon, 12 Nov 2012 19:25:00 +0000

Last Thursday and Friday I had a series of back and forth email exchanges with one of my 11-year-old sixth grader Mr. O's teachers that resulted in me phoning the principal. Even after a good conversation with him I felt unsettled--like, crap, I've made the wrong decision about sending my kid to a traditional public middle school.

I've repeatedly been told not to make my kids pay for my personal belief in public education, that public schools are terrible and are going to make my kids into dumb robots. But at the end of the day, I fundamentally believe there's more right than wrong in our schools, that they only reach their full potential when we all invest in them, and that teachers--even the ones that can't quite seem to understand that I'm not playing when I ask them to contact me that same day if there's a problem with my child at school--work hard and want students to learn.

With that in mind I headed over to the Curtis School on Saturday morning for their Teaching and Learning at Home and at School conference. The presenters included some of my favorite folks who are trying to transform education: Sir Ken Robinson, Yong Zhao, Alfie Kohn, Nikhil Goyal, and Carol Dweck. And there were some new folks--Richard Gever, Steven Jones, and Wendy Mogel--for me to learn from, too. The goal was to, as Sir Ken said, to talk about the mindset and actions needed to reclaim education and make it once more about the relationship between learners and those who help them learn. I won't rehash the whole event here, but I'll just say that it was one of the most inspiring education conferences I've ever attended.

After spending the day thinking about the dangers of praising intelligence instead of effort, how students with the highest GPAs usually rate low on creativity but rate high on being dependable--turning them into mere worker bees for companies, not entrepreneurial innovators--and how we need to ensure students have cultural competence, I came home and, after dinner, I decided to ask my sons a few questions.

"Do you like school?" I asked Mr. O.

"What do you mean?" he replied.

It should be an easy yes or no question, not one that needs to be parsed. "You know," I said. "Do you like school?"

"You mean the learning?" Another clarifying question. He can't say yes, so I know the answer is no.

"Sure," I said, "the learning."

"Well...no. Not really," he finally confessed. Ah, sweet honesty.

"Why not?" I said.

"Because it's boring," he replied with a shrug. "The stuff we do is just boring. And there are too many tests."

I know there are plenty of children who agree, and there there are plenty of adults who don't care if kids think school's a boring and test-heavy experience.

I turned to his little brother. "What about you? Do you like school?" I asked 9-year-old Mr. T.

"Yeah, I guess," he answered. How's that for enthusiasm, folks?

Taking a question from one of the conference's speakers, Richard Gerver, I asked, "What do you like better? School or Disneyland?" I might as well have asked if they'd rather have a $100 bill or a lump of coal.

"Duhhhh. Disneyland. What kind of crazy question is that?" Mr. T replied. "Are you feeling alright, mom?" I assured him that I felt just fine. He walked away shaking his head and mumbling to himself, "Disneyland? Wow."

I can do all the big thinking I want to about education, but if I can't make it work for my own child, well...that's a problem. And the first step is listening to what's going on with them, so I asked Mr. O if I could ask him a few more questions. I recorded the entire conversation--these are his answers verbatim--and I typed it all up so I myself can read through it later and reflect on how to better support him.

Los Angelista: So tell me more about why you don’t like school.

Mr. O: It’s not that I don’t like it, exactly. Like I said, it’s just that it sometimes gets boring.

LA: What gets boring?

O: Sometimes the teacher’s talking and you’re sitting there and you’re not really listening and you’re trying to kill time in your imagination.

LA: But why wouldn’t you just listen?

O: Well I do listen but sometimes it just gets hard to listen cos you get bored. A lot of kids don’t listen.

LA: What are you supposed to do while she’s talking?

O: Sometimes she’s just talking and I have no idea what we’re supposed to do, sometimes we’re supposed to take notes.

What fascinates me is that to most adults, it doesn't matter if it's boring. We expect children to simply suck it up and listen--be obedient, even if they don't know what the purpose is or understand how something's relevant. We expect it because that's what we did in school, and in a society full of worker bees, that's what many of us do at work, too.

LA: What would make school more interesting?

O: Maybe doing more interactive assignments. Like let’s say you’re reading about science, you could actually let students go outside and see nature and experience it so we could learn more about it. We sit a lot. I wish school offered a class that’s more art—where you can learn how to draw people really, really well. And more field trips.

LA: So tell me, what would make school more like Disneyland?

O: It would probably need more creativity, more imagination. When kids get to walk in, you can decide how you want the day to go. Stuff like that.

LA: What would it look like?

O: Magical looking-- a medieval hallway for ancient history. A plant life hallway with vines and a jungle for science. That kind of thing.

That's a pretty amazing idea. The decorations at Disneyland are a huge part of what makes it special, so why can't we get cool themed hallways in schools? And why can't we have days where the kids get to decide what they want to do? What he's talking about is Google's 20 percent time come to life--that resulted in the creation of Gmail. Imagine what kids could create.

LA: What is the worst thing you see happening at your school?

O: Drugs. Kids dealing drugs. Some kids are getting picked on by older kids and then the adults don’t bother to do anything about it, although they act like they do. Like, let’s say there’s a fight on the yard and adults are standing there. They don’t do anything.

What I've noticed in recent conversations with several educators is that these two things--drugs and bullying/fighting--are accepted as a given in many middle and high schools. Teachers don't believe we can do anything about it. "The parents are just as addicted as the kids--to both legal and prescription drugs, so they're not going to do anything," one teacher told me a couple of weeks ago.

LA: If you don’t understand something in school, what happens?

O: Well that kind of depends on what kind of teacher. With Ms. X, she doesn’t really care. She’ll just move on. But with Ms. A and Ms. B, they’ll do their best to make sure I understand it.

LA: Do your teachers care about you?

O: I think Ms. A and Ms. B. But not Ms. X.

LA: So how do you feel when you’re in her class?

O: I feel like she doesn’t really like me. She doesn’t really want me to be in her class. She tries to pick on me.

LA: Do other kids notice?

O: Yeah. She does it in front of everybody.

We ask kids not to be bystanders to bullying, but if the adults aren't modeling that, and are in fact bullying students in class, that's a real problem. Also, learning is about relationships, so if there's no relationship, there's little to no learning happening. Yes, the teacher, Ms. X, is the one I had the disappointing email exchange with.

LA: Tell me more about what you think about tests.

O: Being able to think is more important than a test. Being able to think and answer the right questions in real life is more important than a test. But then they kind of go hand in hand, I guess.

LA: Do the teachers talk about the CST a lot?

O: Um, yeah. They talk about how if we do good on the weekly tests, we’ll do good on the CST.

On the one hand I'm so relieved that he's more interested in learning than tests. On the other hand, how long will that last in a culture where the main point of doing well on a weekly test is so that you can do well on the state standardized test?

LA: What’s more important: Looking smart or learning how to fail?

O: I’d say learning even if you fail. Failing is how you learn stuff, you know? But there’s a difference between learning that way and just failing cos you’re not trying.

LA: What do you think is more important, good grades or creativity?

O: Good grades, because without good grades, I might not be able to go to college. I could have all the creativity in the world but if I don’t have good grades, I’m not going to get in college.

LA: What’s more important, that you tried hard or that you got a good grade?

O: That I tried hard.

LA: Do you think you think your dad and I are too hard on you about school?

O: No, cos I do need to get good grades so I appreciate you all pushing me to get better grades. That reminds me, I have to study on Sunday and Monday for my math test on Tuesday.

Those questions were inspired by Carol Dweck's presentation about a fixed mindset vs a growth mindset—in a growth mindset, you look forward to failure, feedback, and hard work. In a fixed mindset, you believe the opposite. What's interesting to me is that he puts creativity below good grades but doesn't do the same with effort, and he rightly ascertains that we care a great deal about grades. However, emphasizing grades leads to more less risk taking, curiosity, and eagerness to take on harder tasks. Of course the conundrum is if he doesn't get excellent grades, in our current education model he's shooting himself in the foot, especially when it comes to college admissions.

LA: Do the teachers talk to you guys about college a lot?

O: Eh, not really...Well, they sometimes have some staffer go on the loudspeaker doing a one-minute speech about college.

LA: What do they say?

O: 'I went to college and you should too.' Like that’s going to motivate anybody.

I laughed so hard over this. So often, the approach that we think will motivate kids ends up not being motivating at all. I imagine the voice coming through the loudspeaker sounding like Charlie Brown's teacher.

LA: What do you wish you could change about school?

O: The lunch. Sometimes they feed kids crap. Moldy food and then the kids throw up. I hate the drug dealing that goes around. JC got offered drugs so he’s probably not going to go there next year. Also, let’s say you get a really nice teacher and then you get a really nasty teacher. You can’t do anything about it. You can’t switch classes. And theft. On Friday a kid got his gym clothes stolen out of his locker and some other stuff too. The other day someone got his phone stolen. Also the afterschool program—it doesn’t really seem like they have a safe or stable afterschool program. They let high schoolers on campus, too. Oh and having enough supplies in the right place is a problem. We need to make sure if something gets dirty or broken, they have the money to replace it. Most of the time the teachers buy things with their own money, and they shouldn’t have to.

LA: What are the things they did at Y Elementary School at you wish they did at Z Middle School?

O: 1:1 laptop program. More technology. We have to share a laptop with two other students. It’s not really your laptop. And I already know how to do most computer stuff. Teach me something new.

Agreed. He doesn't need more "how to use Microsoft Word" help. Give him some actual coding experience.

LA: Should schools be K-8?

O: NO. I like being separate from elementary school because otherwise the eighth graders would mess with kids Mr. T’s age. Try to sell them drugs.

Note to self: talk to principal again about drugs on campus. This is clearly bothering him. He's brought it up three times.

LA: What about the size of your middle school?

O: There’s a lot of kids in the whole school. What I don’t like is that in my honors classes there are less kids. If you’re not in honors, the classes are packed. That’s not fair. And if you’re in honors, it’s almost all white and Asian kids. In the classes that aren’t honors, it’s more diverse. Like I’m supposed to believe nearly all the smartest kids are white and Asian.

LA: Why do you think there aren’t more black and Latino kids in honors?

O: Honestly, I’m not sure. Maybe they purposely keep the number down. I’m not sure.

He's brought up the racial divisions and how honors kids get resources the other kids don't several times. Why is it that an 11-year-old can see these things--and be bothered by them--but many adults are not? Truly, I don't think we adults are bothered enough by that. We're too used to operating in a race and class-grounded scarcity model--if everyone's child gets small class sizes, resources, and technology, there won't be anything left for my baby.

***

I could see that Mr. O was itching to go wrestle his brother on the floor so that was the end of our conversation. We say we want more creativity and imagination in kids, but I wonder what would happen if every parent and teacher asked students these sorts of questions, and then changed teaching/parenting according to what they discovered?

Should Little Girls Play With Breastfeeding Dolls?

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Fri, 09 Nov 2012 20:43:00 +0000

Little girls play with baby dolls, change their diapers, and feed them milk from bottles. So why not learn to breastfeed through playing, too? Last night on the 11 PM news there was a story about The Breast Milk Baby, a doll that allows little girls to pretend that they're nursing a baby. It's been popular in Europe for awhile and the manufacturers are trying to expand here in the USA.

I recall a little dustup over this doll last year. Folks said it was sexualizing little girls and that the last thing we need is 6-year-olds sticking a doll up under their shirts to give it a pretend snack. I didn't pay attention too much because I have two sons--not exactly the target demographic.

However, I did breastfeed both of my boys--when you're making $1,800 a month as a teacher in Compton, like I was when my eldest was born, you choose the FREE food option over the one that comes in a can. I started reading more about the health benefits and stuck with it for my youngest son, so I'm strongly in favor of breastfeeding.

Still, I'm trying to put myself in the shoes of the folks who are up in arms. Is it cos the doll involves boobs the girls don't have yet? Bodily functions? Are we all prudes? Is it that the doll makes sucking noises and the mouth moves too? Is it the fact that the doll is a ridiculously priced $89?

I decided to poll the ultimate real talk test case, my husband. Would he would get one of these dolls for our daughter if we'd had one?

"Wait, are you pregnant?" he asked, his face lighting up like it was Christmas morning.

"Nooooope," I replied. "Hypothetically, would you get one of these dolls for a daughter if you had had one?

"Oh, you're not pregnant. Okay..." (Note to self: start discussing him getting snipped.) "Well, yeah, of course I would," he continued. "I mean, I kept my kids on a leash. Why not a breastfeeding doll so she's socialized that doing that is normal and doesn't feel like she has to retreat in a cave to do it?"

Yes, because breastfeeding dolls are the equivalent of kid leashes. But it gets better: He went and asked my sons what they thought about this doll and 11-year-old Mr. O's reaction was, "What kind of sick doll is that?" That's disgusting. Just stop talking. LALALALA. I can't hear you talking!"

Clearly, I don't have to think about whether or not, in the pursuit of gender equity, I should go buy my sons a breastfeeding doll. They're not having it.

If we're cool with little girls pretend feeding a baby doll from a bottle, why not pretend breastfeeding? What do you think--yay or nay on the breastfeeding doll? If you had a little girl, would you buy her one?

I'm tempted to say no solely on the basis of the cheesy video for the doll. Watch this and you'll see what I mean--warning, there are BEWBS in this video so if you're at work, watch at your own risk.

Hey Guy Who Yelled, 'Hope You Have Fun Putting That N***** Back Into Office' at Me

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Wed, 07 Nov 2012 07:36:00 +0000

"Hope you have fun putting that n***** back into office."

That's what a white man yelled at me in a grocery store parking lot this morning as he drove past me. I snapped and threw the venti chai I'd just bought at the Starbucks in the store at his car. Not the most compassionate or charming thing I've ever done but it was the last straw.

We've had four years of folks claiming that Obama's 2008 election meant we were in an era of postracial nirvana, all while nonstop racial dog whistles--from the birthers and Donald Trump, to the insinuations about Obama's mother being a whore who sleeps with black men across the globe, to Obama only becoming head of the Harvard Law Review because of affirmative action--became the norm.

Four years of pent up anger flew towards that man's car with that cup. He hit the gas pedal and sped away--my cup missed his car by inches.

I went home, took off my Depeche Mode t-shirt, dug out my Black is Beautiful t-shirt that I bought at the Studio Museum of Harlem, and headed to the polls.

I cried while I was in the voting booth, thinking of all my black ancestors who were called that word and couldn't do a damn thing about it. As much as it hurt to have that said to me, I thanked God that I could do something about it: I voted.

Today Bill O'Reilly got on FOX and stoked racial fear by telling viewers, "The white establishment is now the minority," and "it's not a traditional America anymore."

And in case viewers didn't quake in fear, O'Reilly made his dog whistle louder and scarier: "And the voters, many of them, feel that the economic system is stacked against them and they want stuff," he said. "You are going to see a tremendous Hispanic vote for President Obama. Overwhelming black vote for President Obama. And women will probably break President Obama's way. People feel that they are entitled to things and which candidate, between the two, is going to give them things?"

Well, Mr. O'Reilly, you're right: I do want something since, as President Obama said tonight in his acceptance speech, ""The role of citizen does not end with your vote."

I want Americans to truly embrace citizenship so we can ensure the peace and prosperity of this nation--it's pretty clear that we need racial healing to get there and it's going take all of us doing our part.

In my faith there's a book called The Advent of Divine Justice and there's a passage in it that has shaped my world view on what we need to do to achieve racial unity in America more than anything else.

White folks, it says, must "abandon once for all their usually inherent and at times subconscious sense of superiority, to correct their tendency towards revealing a patronizing attitude towards the members of the other race, to persuade them through their intimate, spontaneous and informal association with them of the genuineness of their friendship and the sincerity of their intentions, and to master their impatience of any lack of responsiveness on the part of a people who have received, for so long a period, such grievous and slow-healing wounds."

And black folks have an equal responsibility to "show by every means in their power the warmth of their response, their readiness to forget the past, and their ability to wipe out every trace of suspicion that may still linger in their hearts and minds."

So no, not hurling racial slurs out car windows and not throwing chai at anyone, either. Clearly, I can do better, too.

You know what else I want? I want President Obama to be able to be black.

In his excellent essay, Fear of a Black President, Ta-Nehisi Coates quoted pollster Cornell Belcher as telling Gwen Ifill back in 2008, "The thing is, a black man can't be president in America, given the racial aversion and history that’s still out there. However, an extraordinary, gifted, and talented young man who happens to be black can be president."

As Coates wrote, "His is the perfect statement of the Obama era, a time marked by a revolution that must never announce itself, by a democracy that must never acknowledge the weight of race, even while being shaped by it. Barack Obama governs a nation enlightened enough to send an African American to the White House, but not enlightened enough to accept a black man as its president."

Can we accept a black man as the President of the United States of America? Can we make the commitment to work on the racism in our hearts so we can truly move forward? We don't need four more years of the exhausting, race-based poison that's infected this nation, that's for sure.

As someone who grew up with a black mother and white father--who've been married over 40 years--I know first hand how beautiful racial unity really is. I want that for all of us. C'mon, friends, let's do better.

For All You Undecided Voters, Here's a Third Party Option You Should Consider

noreply@blogger.com (Liz Dwyer) — Mon, 05 Nov 2012 07:33:00 +0000

With a mere 24 hours till Election Day here in the U.S. folks are WAY fired up. But I bet there are still some undecided voters out there--folks who can't figure out who will best serve the American people. Well, I have an easy third party candidate for them: ~~Election~~ Depeche Mode.

C'mon, roll with me and ignore that "must be born in the U.S." rule. Martin Gore, Andrew Fletcher, and Dave Gahan could easily serve as our POTUS. They could easily split up the day into three 8-hour shifts and bring some serious, 24/7 all black everything style to the White House.

Need more proof that Depeche Mode is the way to go? Here are five reasons to give them your vote:

Hotness: Exhibit A.
Talent: Exhibit B, and Exhibit C.
Thirty years experience bringing folks together: Exhibit D.
They're honest: They held a press conference on October 23rd announcing their new tour and actually admitted they haven't settled on a name for the song played at the start of the event.
They're not beholden to any special interests: They consistently manage to ignore that Super PAC of fans who threaten not to buy the next Depeche Mode record unless they bring back ex Mode member Alan Wilder. Pfft, look at Dave Gahan up there, impervious to the pressure. He's all, "Look folks, Alan's been gone for 17 years. We're cool and all, but he's not coming back. Next."

Indeed, they also do exceptionally well in high pressure town halls meetings. In the aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, neither Governor Romney nor President Obama could do much campaigning so Depeche Mode stepped up to answer some of the tough questions from undecided voters. Don't believe me? Here's some video proof courtesy of my uber-talented Depeche Mode brother, Sean, and sister, Amanda.

They gave some good answers, right? You ready to write them in on the ballot on Tuesday? Let's do this! Election Mode in full effect!