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An Open Letter

2017-09-27T16:02:00.000-07:00

To my brothers and sisters in Christ-

I feel compelled by some things I've seen on Facebook this weekend to share some thoughts.

This country has a long history of taking issue with how black people protest & ask for their rights.

Frederick Douglass, an escaped slave who went on to become a powerful orator & abolitionist, wrote about it. Douglass’s detractors asked him to “persuade more and rebuke less” when discussing the evils of slavery. Douglass had called slavery the “great sin and shame” of America, and they wanted him to be less passionate and forthright; they felt his anti-slavery message would be more palatable to moderates if he would avoid calling it what it was.

He responded to detractors by pointing out that only struggle will bring change, saying “If there is no struggle, there is no progress. Those who profess to favor freedom and yet deprecate agitation are men who want crops without plowing the ground.” Agitation is never pleasant, convenient or wholly positive; think about the agitator in your washing machine or on your vacuum cleaner. It shakes everything up, yet without it, nothing would get clean. Without agitators like Douglass, slavery might still exist. Thank God for men and women who weren’t afraid to speak out. Read the rest of Douglass’s remarks here and here.

Martin Luther King Jr. also dealt with the uniquely American idea that, while peaceful protests are acknowledged to be a right, it is never a “good” time for black people to stage them (although white people can in fact stage armed protests, heck, even armed takeovers of government buildings- and get acquitted.

Martin Luther King had to address myriad complaints about the protests and sit-ins and marches that eventually changed Jim Crow laws and desegregated schools. His words to his detractors are pointed: “You deplore the demonstrations taking place in Birmingham. But...[you fail] to express a similar concern for the conditions that brought about the demonstrations.” In other words, he’s calling people out for being more concerned with the agitation and inconvenience of the protests than by the injustice that spurred the protests. King says they are wrong.

He goes on, calling out moderate white church leaders. He says that they have become more of an enemy to him than the KKK and white supremacist groups, because at least the KKK and the White Citizens Bureau reject him outright, instead of feigning support that never fully materializes. He says the church leaders are “more devoted to "order" than to justice; [and they prefer] a negative peace which is the absence of tension to a positive peace which is the presence of justice.” Peace, he is saying, isn’t merely pretending that everything is fine, but actually MAKING things fine. Justice, not comfort, is the source of peace. (And if you want Biblical support, do a quick Bible search for the word “justice”- you’ll find that exhortations to create and seek justice come far more frequently than those that tell Christians to stand up for an anthem or fight over a Starbucks cup).

We look back now and revere MLK for his peaceful protests and yet, at the time he was organizing them, people were saying much the same things as they are saying to black people who protest today. “Why are you so angry?” “It’s not like things are that bad”, etc. And that passage I quoted above is from “Letter from a Birmingham Jail.” Full text here.

King was jailed for the protests we now look back on misty eyed, believing that we would have stood up for him, believing we wouldn’t have been like those OTHER white people, believing we wouldn’t have called him an agitator, believing we wouldn’t have been “sick of the all the drama” he was creating by endlessly beating the drum about racism and injustice.

Our black brothers and sisters in Christ and our fellow black Americans need to know that we have their backs and will stand united with them against hate and racism. If we are going out of our way to be offended by and speak out against peaceful kneeling, how are we demonstrating the compassion that they need, particularly if we said nothing regarding the white supremacist rally in Charlottesville Virginia?

If you don’t support this weekend’s NFL demonstrations, maybe have some conversations with people who do, and ask them why; have a conversation. Ask people to talk about the experiences that drive them; ask them why they feel the way they do.

Maybe do some research on Colin Kaepernick, who was the first to take a knee, and who the President called a “son of a bitch” this weekend. News articles abound explaining why he protested and what it has cost him professionally; read some and know the situation thoroughly. If you still think he should stand for the anthem, then fine, but at least you can address the situation with the empathy born understanding instead of the anger born of ignorance.

Finally, remember to love one another deeply, for as Peter said, love covers over a multitude of sins. It’s by our love for ONE ANOTHER that all people will know that we are God’s.

With much love and respect,

Sarah Ford

Hope

2016-12-16T17:01:00.001-08:00

I have to say that hearing my students intelligently discuss literature, leadership and the legacy of American slavery was such a lovely way to end the semester. My juniors discussed Frederick Douglass's Narrative Life of a Slave, Huckleberry Finn, and a self-selected book about racism/racial identity in America. My 10th graders discussed Animal Farm, Lord of the Flies, and a dystopia of their own choosing.

I was so proud of the maturity and spirit they brought into the room and the kindness and respect they displayed in talking about some sensitive (for 11th grade in particular) material.

My heart swelled when I heard them talk (with me listening but pretending to ignore them) about the impact of seeing Kunta Kinte suffer in Roots, and of how their perspective on the evils of slavery changed after hearing Frederick Douglass's vivid description of the first whipping he ever witnessed.

My favorite comment was from one of my most influential, popular students, who had read Malcolm X's biography on his own. "Before this unit," he said, "I was the typical suburban white kid who didn't understand why people were angry about racism, or Black Lives Matter and things like that. I didn't understand where they were coming from. But now after hearing about how horrible things were for so long, I get it."

I nearly cried hearing him say that, and the best part is that he wasn't parroting me or telling me what he thought I wanted to hear; he was just sharing about books with his peers.

No More FB

2016-12-16T14:20:00.002-08:00

Oh, hi there (spins around on swivel chair).

Why am I not posting anything on Facebook anymore? Well, I'm glad you asked that Billy.

You see, Facebook is terrible.

First of all there are WAY too many people on there from WAY too many walks of life. I don't need to see my co-worker's Instagram Christmas cards, a fellow soccer mom's pathos-drenched chain posts (which "99.99% of people won't share") and my high school acquaintance's alt-right memes all in the same place (or maybe...at all?).

Second, Facebook is way too easy for all of the above to leave their thoughts publicly in a way that reflects on me. That empty field with a convenient "comment" button just begs people to leave their (unsolicited) opinions. Watching my high school best friend have a public meltdown during which she accused me of being homophobic and then rage quit Facebook was about my limit.

However, I still want to swap news and links and have my finger on the pulse of current events so I asked Kyle to disconnect my Twitter feed from my Facebook account so I can do so without all the drama.

So if you're interested, you can follow me on Twitter, if not, don't. That's the great thing about Twitter. If you don't like what I share, no need to drop your opinion into that receptive comment field. Just silently unfollow. Trust me, I won't even notice. No one reads my Twitter anyway; it's great!

Down the Rabbit Hole

2016-12-09T21:58:00.000-08:00

So I have really gone down the rabbit hole these last few weeks. I have followed crazy links and memes shared by friends and relatives on FB and read thousands and thousands of words written by alt-right personalities, like Milo Yannoupolis and Mike Cernovich, conservatives who've disavowed the alt-right like Ben Shapiro and David French, and angry liberals like Charles Blow of the NYT, and Joy Reid of MSNBC.

Reading this stuff, particularly the alt-right stuff, was a revelation for me. As I scrolled through articles mocking the idea of consent and dismissing victims of rape as liars who don't understand human sexuality, articles that claim that racism no longer exists while claiming that OBAMA (yes, OBAMA, our first black President) "created" racism, and articles chock full of derogatory terms for a "left" I didn't even consider myself part of, things all clicked into place.

"I've heard this stuff before," I realized. From people I know. Relatives. Friends. Acquaintances. Online. I just hadn't known where it was coming from. When my brother told me that "affirmative action is the cause of racism" (an idea so ridiculous it doesn't even need to be countered) and "liberals are perpetuating racism to win elections", I had assumed he was a crazy, lone-wolf. When I shared a particularly strongly worded post-election piece, and was told, gently, that "systemic racism doesn't exist anymore, it's just the media blowing things out of proportion", I thought I was just hearing one person's opinion. But once I went down the alt-right rabbit hole, I realized I'd found the well-spring.

So THIS was the source of it all; I had wondered why so many seemingly rational and compassionate people are so convinced that racism doesn't exist, and that if it does, it is to the advantage of people of color and at the expense of whites. The answer is simple: because they have spent the last x number of years imbibing the words of a neo-Nazi agenda so close to the rhetoric of the religious right as to have become nearly indistinguishable from it.

Think about it; the alt-right and the religious right share views on abortion (wrong), Islam (wrong and dangerous), Hillary (evil and wrong), women in power (threatening and un-Biblical), gays and transgenders (perverted), environmentalism and climate change (scientists support evolution and are therefore untrustworthy).

The alt-right knew they could find common ground with the religious right, especially if they downplayed their more outrageous, racist views and emphasized their religiosity and disgust with liberalism and its slide toward Sodom-like hedonism.

And so with cleverly crafted memes, diversionary scare tactics like the "war on Christmas" (look around any mall in America and you can see that there is no war on Christmas...not anywhere...not even close, unless you count the token Hanukkah tree on the fringes of the food court as a "war"), and the subtle message that political correctness is not the antithesis of cruelty but of truth (and why should we pander to the feelings of a bunch of LIBERALS anyway?), the alt-right "stole the hearts" of the religious right, as Absolom stole the hearts of the men of Israel from his father David.

And what kills me is that I wasn't paying any attention. Oh, sure, I read the news here and there. I followed the primary and Presidential debates; I planned lessons on Huckleberry Finn and discussed the N-word with my students; I was surprised when a few of them wrote papers on on how "black people just want handouts" and "black people are more racist against white people", but assumed they were aberrations. I had students who wrote comments on articles they were supposed to annotate, like "I don't trust anything this author said, because I looked them up online and they're LIBERAL", but I embraced it because they at least had an opinion, a rarity at times in an 11th grade classroom. I didn't know.

I didn't know what dark current nourished these comments and thoughts, but I do now. I can't unknow it. The Christian right and a good portion of mainstream America has suckled at the beating heart of white supremacy. The motive may have been to repeal Roe vs. Wade, or to establish a "righteous" government, or any number of noble goals. But the road to those ends led through the boudoir of hate and many Christians are there now, either willfully blind and protesting their innocence, or insolently aware, jutting out their chins and asking the rest of us, "so what? I'm tired of this enforced, nanny-state femininity and want to be a MAN of GOD", even though they KNOW full-well who they've joined hands with in their pursuit.

As a Christian, I am ashamed.

I do understand that this logic can go both ways. I understand that just as I see the white supremacy undergirding the religious right's new preoccupation with "ending identity politics", I also know that some of my brothers and sisters in Christ believe that the "liberal media" has seduced me with its anti-Trump fear appeals. To them I would say that the liberal media doesn't scare me half as much as the writings of the alt-right. I also hear the argument that God ordains rulers and therefore I should fall in line. To that I would say the Bible doesn't say that all ordained leaders are good leaders, nor does it say that you aren't allowed to question them, so long as you are respectful. Still another argument is the fatalistic one in which America "deserves" whatever it gets because we have pushed God out of our country. But to that I would ask who you are to decide who "deserves" anything?

I can't unknow what I now know. I can't unsee what I now see. And I can't stop speaking.

Wow! (written on 11/14)

2016-12-09T19:33:00.001-08:00

Wow. I honestly thought that Trump was a fool not to denounce the KKK and white supremacists, believing this stubbornness of his would cost him the election. "People don't like Hillary for sure," I thought, "but if there's one thing Americans are unified on, it's that white supremacy and Nazism are bad."

As for all the talk about middle America being uneducated/backward/racist, I never really credited it much. Americans, I believed, truly want to make this land a land of opportunity for all. Americans, I believed, know the difference between sensationalism and news. Americans, I believed, can see how transparently Trump lies; I mean, the guy says "I never said that!" reflexively about stuff that is still on his Twitter feed, or that we have videotape of him saying. Americans, I believed, are savvy enough to tell the lies from the truth.

Sure my Facebook feed is crawling with memes of Hillary as the devil, posts that claim to have the "smoking gun" about Hillary's involvement with "insert wild, controversial and unproven claim here", and a couple of people have seriously told me they believe she's at the center of a global conspiracy involving the media, several branches of law enforcement, and George Soros in which her crimes included murdering some 14 people, running the entire U.S. mainstream media (that includes like, every major newspaper and network...man is she powerful, why even RUN for Pres?), but still, I thought, people KNOW that anyone can make a meme, anyone can post ANYTHING on the internet and make it look real, people know... Oh God Almighty!

I really believed that! Oh, sweet little Sarah of six days ago! You were so naive.

Being a Trump supporter doesn't make you a racist, being a racist makes you a racist

2016-11-05T06:42:00.000-07:00

"I'm not racist, I just love my country and I want to see Americans put first!" - How many times have we some variation of this from Trump supporters? Or what about the defensive/sarcastic "oh, I suppose I'm a racist now?!?" in response to a challenge about some incendiary comment from Trump's twitter feed? I have heard that one more than a few times.

And I do want to believe that many Trump supporters do not in fact espouse a virulently racist or sexist worldview. Who would want to believe otherwise? The alternative is to believe that your brother, or your coworker, or that sweet old guy down the block with the TRUMP/PENCE sticker on his truck is at core a seething, angry bigot.

But I am curious as to why more Trump supporters are not making an effort to speak out against racism and sexism and distance themselves from the white supremacist fringe groups that have publicly endorsed their candidate.

So I am sitting here asking myself why? Why not just roundly denounce racism?

Especially since Trump supporters often answer the charges of racism/misogyny by getting either wildly defensive (lambasting Hillary, Obama, and "the liberals") or clamming up with clenched teeth as if their honor was impugned by the mere mention such labels. Why not defend themselves of the charge of racism and sexism?

A few possible solutions/justifications come to mind immediately:

1- They are, but the media/Facebook ignores it because it doesn't fit the "narrative" surrounding Trump supporters as racist and misogynist. This is certainly very possible. A recent analysis by BuzzFeed found that social media promotes a narrative of division and outrage; in fact, they found that the less truth a story contained, the more "engagement" (clicks, likes, shares, comments, etc.) it created. So why share a story about Trump supporters standing up for the black community? The clicks aren't there for posts that aren't incendiary.

2- They are taking their cues from Trump himself, who never apologizes for anything. And since he doesn't feel the need to swear off the support of groups like the KKK, they figure they don't need to apologize for it either.

3- They feel that we live a post-racist world, one in which contempt for racism/sexism is a foregone conclusion and there's no need to defend themselves.

I am not sure which of the above three is correct, or if it's all three, or if it's some fourth or fifth thing that I haven't thought of. But what I do know is that I can refute #3. We DON'T live in world post-race, as this election has made clear. White supremacist and misogynist groups are still active; they are still running women and minorities out of public spaces (think Leslie Jones and Jessica Valenti), and many of them have unabashedly endorsed Trump.

Which brings me to my second refutation of point #3- any benefit of the doubt Trump and his supporters deserve has been gnawed away by the enthusiasm with which Trump has been embraced by such groups of deplorables.

Is it FAIR that this is the case, considering Trump and his supporters never asked for the support of people like David Duke and the KKK? Maybe not. But since when does fair have anything to do with doing the right thing?

All Trump ever had to do to put the "racist" label to bed is to denounce the white supremacists who support him; but he hasn't even done that, at least not very convincingly. When asked about David Duke's support last spring, Trump did not immediately denounce, and although he later blamed it on a bad earpiece (which, whether true or not, certainly gave the white supremacist camp the idea that he doesn't devalue their support), he didn't correct the misstep with a clear and passionate disavowal. In fact, he seemed more annoyed than anything, getting defensive and saying "I disavow, okay? Do you want me to do it again for the 12th time?" (it was the first). And recent disavowals, though handled much faster and more professionally than last spring's disavowal of Duke, still come from Trump's campaign rather than Trump himself.

A personal and passionate condemnation of racism, or an acknowledgement of the importance of all races, religions and sexes would elevate Trump's standing as a candidate and as a human being. So why doesn't he do it? Or what about asking the followers at his rallies to knock off the sexist and racist langauge? We've all heard the terrible things people have recorded at Trump's rallies, from the man shouting "JEW-S-A" at the press box, to the loud cries of "bitch" lobbied at Hillary, to the n-word and worse.

So why doesn't Trump ask his supporters to knock it off?

Similarly, why don't his supporters stand up against this behavior? In the videos we've seen of unruly racists at Trump rallies, there are usually plenty of "America loving" supporters looking on. Why aren't they saying anything? Some footage of the crowds standing up to racism and sexism in their ranks would certainly help dispel the charge that Trump's supporters are racist. Is it because they're afraid these elements are unhinged?

Probably. I think I might be. But since when is doing the right thing dependent on NOT BEING AFRAID TO DO IT?

Trump supporters: I know we don't agree on everything. But can we all agree that racism is bad? Can we agree that misogyny is bad? Can we agree that David Duke and the KKK are deplorable?

Then let's stand up and SAY SO.

Starting with you, Donald Trump.

Toy Story 3 vs. The Brave Little Toaster

2015-08-02T22:35:00.000-07:00

I think I am the only one in the world who doesn't love Toy Story 3. According to IMDB's movie rankings, Toy Story 3 is actually rated HIGHER than Toy Story and Toy Story 2. Rotten Tomatoes gives it a 99%. And multiple people have told me that the conclusion left them sobbing.

The conclusion of Toy Story 3 seemed a shade too The Return of the King for me; the screen time it spent trying to wring emotion from me was more than it had earned. I didn't cry when Buzz, Woody & co. decide to go into the trash compactor together or when Andy bids farewell to his beloved toys and passes them on to Bonnie. I was just left with the hollow feeling that I had seen all this before.

And then I realized it was because I HAD seen it all before!

Toy Story 3 is pretty much a flashier remake of one of my all-time favorite animated movies, The Brave Little Toaster (1987).

The Brave Little Toaster is a wonderful fable about five appliances, a lamp, a radio (John Lovitz), a vacuum (Thurl Ravenscroft), an electric blanket, and a toaster, who are amazingly human.

The five friends (who feel more like siblings given their bickering, yet loving dynamic) start out in a boarded-up vacation home that hasn't been visited in years, but they still cherish hope that their "Master" will return and they will someday be useful again. They remember The Master fondly as a young boy who "played" with them and we see several flashbacks of him putting toast in the toaster, cuddling with the blanket, etc. The appliances work hard every day to keep the house clean for The Master's return, and go into spasms of ecstasy whenever they hear a car pass by, on the slim chance that it's his.

This is very similar to the beginning of Toy Story 3, where "Andy's Toys" have been boxed up for years, but are still keeping hope alive that someday they will once again be played with.

The wake-up call for the appliances comes when a "FOR SALE" sign is posted out front, forcing them to confront the fact that they've been abandoned. At this point, the appliances decide to take matters into their own hands and seek out their beloved Master.

Sound familiar? Basically the same thing happens to Andy's Toys, who are mistakenly put into a donation pile when Andy is packing up his things to go to college.

The Master is also college-bound, and we learn about two-thirds of the way through the movie that he intends to drive out to his family's old cottage and pick up the old appliances there to take to his dorm. Little does he know that the Brave Little Toaster and her friends are actually on their way to find him.

They are successful in tracking down the Master's address (which shares an address with CalArts, even down to the apartment number A113) and arrive at his apartment. Here they are greeted by an old friend, a TV who also used to furnish the vacation home. Unfortunately, he is the only one who is happy to see them. The new, modern appliances which grace the Master's city apartment are jealous because the Master is taking "some old junk to the dorm, instead of us", and they show off all of their fancy features in a song called "Cutting Edge." It culminates in them throwing the old appliances out the window, while their poor friend "Rabbit Ears" the TV looks on helplessly.

Andy's toys end up in a similarly hostile environment at the daycare. They are abused by hard-playing toddlers and restricted from the more-desired older kids by the long-time toys who have devised a kind of crony system to shut out the newcomers. Eventually, they too are put into the trash.

After being tossed out the window, the Toaster and her pals land in a garbage truck bound for Ernie's Disposal. Ernie's Disposal is a junkyard which features are large magnet whose job it is to place objects on a conveyor belt so they can be crushed and compacted into a small cube. The five appliances manage to avoid the sadistic magnet for some time; meanwhile, the old cars at the junkyard sing a very moving song called "Worthless" where they remember all of the ways they served in their lives; they reminisce about driving people to a wedding, racing in an Indy-500, cruising on the beach, commuting to work, and driving children to school on a reservation. Each verse is punctuated with the reflection that they are now "worthless." Unlike the ending of Toy Story 3, this song actually does bring tears to my eyes.

While the cars are singing their swan song at the dump, the Master has realized that his beloved appliances are no longer at the cottage, and decides to try and pick up something "cheap" to take to college. Here, the Toaster and co.'s friendship with the TV pays off, as the TV is able to give the Master the address for Ernie's disposal.

The Master comes to the junkyard and finds his appliances just as they are being lifted onto the conveyor belt by the giant magnet. He tries to get them free, but ends up getting trapped under something heavy and nearly crushed by the compactor. He is saved by the Toaster who throws herself into the gears of the machine to save his life.

The final scene shows the Master fixing the selfless toaster and tossing her and the other four appliances into the trunk of his car before he departs for college.

The penultimate scene of Toy Story 3 also features a magnet, a conveyor belt, and a trash compactor to a very similar effect. I noticed it when I first saw it in the theater, but until I noticed all the other similarities with The Brave Little Toaster, I chalked it up to Pixar's apparent obsession with giant magnets (see Wall-E).

However, once I noticed how closely the plot of Toy Story 3 mirrors The Brave Little Toaster, I realized why the movie seemed so "eh" to me; it was familiar because I'd basically already seen it. This is not totally surprising, as John Lasseter, who helped write Toy Story 3 was also involved in The Brave Little Toaster, as were many of Pixar's founding members. Wikipedia states that The Brave Little Toaster was Lasseter's first film pitch.

I don't feel like it's bad that Pixar pilfered Toy Story 3 from Brave Little Toaster, because it was essentially stealing from itself, and doing it with a bigger budget and more recognizable characters and an established franchise.

BUT- and I hate to say this, because I absolutely love both Toy Story 1 & 2- I really feel like The Brave Little Toaster is better.

It's got so much heart and soul and innocence, it's so funny, it has great characters and such great music.

If you haven't seen it, I recommend that you watch it, and see if you don't see something really special in The Brave Little Toaster. I realize that if you've seen Toy Story 3 first, you probably are going to see The Brave Little Toaster as sort of a rough draft, but give it a chance.

2013-01-17T13:20:00.001-08:00

Last month, I read two very different books about migration in the U.S. I didn't intend to do so; it happened kind of accidentally, but they complement each other well. Both are fictionalized accounts of real historical events and both feature major Westward migrations, so I thought it might be interesting to contrast them. One is the relatively unknown A Sudden Country by Karen Fisher; the other is the cultural juggernaut The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck.

I read A Sudden Country first. I saw this book reviewed in Entertainment Weekly years ago, and added it to my Amazon wish list. Lucky for me, my Amazon wish list is now so old that most of the books on it are now available in the local library. So lately I've been walking the library with my Amazon wish list pulled up on my phone searching for titles, and that's how I happend to come across this one.

Fisher's book is set during the 1847 Westward migration- just before the Gold Rush- when thousands of Americans took the Oregon trail west in covered wagons. It is the story of Lucy Mitchell, whose husband Israel (interesting that he shares a name with the wandering people of the Bible's Exodus) is obsessed with the idea of leaving his comfortable life and seeing the wild American frontier, oblivious to the dangers and to the bitterness of heart the trip is causing to his wife. Lucy's fears for her safety and that of her children are the driving force of her attraction to a fur trader, trapper and all-around survivalist named MacLaren, with whom she eventually has an affair. MacLaren has his own story; he is married to a Nez Perce woman who left him for another man, and their three children (who are half Native American) have since all died of smallpox brought west by the first migration of white people on the Oregon trail.

This story, set on the wild, vast American frontier, is surprisingly small and intimate. It takes place almost entirely in the heads of its two leads, MacLaren and Lucy Mitchell, and is not so much a love story as a practical grown-up drama. The characters are very real; their thoughts come alive and ring with truth, but the issues presented here, such as how westward migration affected the Native populations (many of which were decimated by smallpox and other European diseases), are not touched on except as they relate intimately to the lives of the two leads. Thus the entire Westward migration and all its tragedy and triumph is a little bit reduced. Given the book's setting, I expected a grand sweeping tale as big as the untouched American plains, and got a small human drama that in many ways could have been set anywhere at any time.

The story also strangely lacks a moral center. Lucy and MacLaren have their affair and neither one seems to feel particularly bad about it- which is surprising in some ways as MacLaren himself is a cuckold whose wife has a series of men throughout the book. The theme that Fisher is trying to get across is one of "stories;" she repeatedly calls the Native Americans people who like stories, and she also refers to the "stories" (meaning the Bible) that brought the white man forward over sea and land to conquer. At the end of the book, MacLaren, held hostage by hostile Indians, tells them his story.

I think the author is trying to convey that our stories are who we are. That the stories of the Nez Pearce drive them in one direction while the stories of the Europeans (Biblical for the most part) drive them another. But to me the overall effect of the book, is that the feelings and "stories" of one person override and obscure the larger "story." Therefore Lucy's story, her bitterness against her husband and her fear of the future, justify her affair and override the big picture story of her family, her marriage, and the entire Westward migration. The book almost seems to say that our responsibility is to make ourselves happy as well as we can, when we can, and that our stories are just kind of there to get us through the night.

Interesting that this is almost the polar opposite of the second book I read, The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck. I chose this book because Kyle and I watched Ken Burns' amazing documentary on the Dust Bowl, and I was intrigued to find out that the Westward migration of 1930's actually dwarfed the Oregon Trail era migration by hundreds of thousands of people- it was truly an exodus of amazing proportions! I knew that Steinbeck's novel is the classic account of this migration so I felt compelled to read it. Plus I felt a little bit like a sham as an English teacher never having read it! (How did I miss this book and yet had to read Huckleberry Finn in three different courses?)

Whereas I felt A Sudden Country was a large story told in a small way, The Grapes of Wrath is a small story told in a big way! It is the story of the Joad family, who, like so many families of the era are reduced to share cropping on their own land because the drought and the dust storms have forced them to borrow heavily from the banks. At last, the banks decide it is more profitable to plant where the sharecroppers' houses are and kick them off the land. The Joads pack everything into a truck and migrate to California where the lure of good jobs, fertile land and fruit trees has drawn hundreds of thousands of Dust Bowl refugees. Unfortunately, California doesn't deliver all it has promised- after all, there is still a Great Depression on and fear of all the migrants taking good jobs, or going on state aid leads to unfair and unholy labor practices, ridiculously low wages, and a terrible situation for the Joads.

This story is excellently told and drew me in masterfully. I felt the unfairness with the Joads, I was angry when they were angry, and sad when they were, and awed at the sheer meanness, and sometimes the kindness, of humanity.

But beyond the story of this one family, Steinbeck manages to create a story of and for every family that has ever lost their home, for every man who has been desperate for work, for every woman who has struggled to feed her family, and for anyone who ever raged against a hostile and unfair world. Steinbeck's interstitials- chapters that don't mention the Joads specifically but that give a kind of snapshot of the era- are part of the reason for the "big" feeling of this book. There is a chapter about the banks, their hungry and regardless drive for profit, a chapter about the used car salesmen who ripped off the migrating people with ridiculously high prices, a chapter about a waitress who watches the migration of these poor but proud folks. Their testimonies elevate the Joad's intimate and sympathetic tale into a grand opus- a symphony of whirling dust, chugging tractors, grinding gears, humming Capitalism, gnawing hunger, fierce desire. The final scene, where one of the Joads literally offers the milk of human kindness to a starving man, is the perfect final note.

The central idea of The Grapes of Wrath is that we are all beholden to each other, that we are responsible to one another. That our personal wishes and desires, our own "stories" (as Karen Fisher would say) are obscured or lost in the great big story of humanity as it struggles on- that our selves and our own families don't compare to the grandness of what is at stake in the battle for life to go on.

This is shown to us through the transformation of Tom Joad, the eldest son of the Joad clan. Throughout the book, Tom is just trying to get by. He continually does what he has to do to move himself and the family forward without thinking much beyond his next act, his next meal; he is continually telling the other characters that he is just "trying to put one foot in front of the other" and that is all he can think about. Meanwhile, his friend Casey, a former preacher, is constantly trying to get him to see the big picture; to see the forest and not just the trees, to see how his struggle connects with the struggles of those around him.

We know Tom finally "gets" it when he delivers his famous final speech, on the eve of leaving his family to fight the greater battle for the migrant workers and their rights. As his mother begs him to stay, worried that she will never see him again, Tom reassures her; "Whenever they's a fight so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Whenever they's a cop beating up a guy, I'll be there...I'll be in the way guys yell when they're mad, and I'll be in the way kids laugh when they're hungry an' they know supper's ready. An' when our folks eat the stuff they raise, an' live in the houses they build, why, I'll be there." And just like that, Tom's struggle, which throughout the book was only to "put one foot in front of other" becomes about something bigger and more socially responsible.

While A Sudden Country is very insightful about relationships and sometimes delightfully introspective in a Virginia Woolf kind of way, The Grapes of Wrath is at once intimate and epic, a truly astounding book and one with themes that are still relevant today. As we've watched the economy take a nosedive, and seen so many families displaced from their homes, as good paying jobs become more scarce and as anger against the banks grows, The Grapes of Wrath is just as visceral and moving a book as I imagine it was when first released.

2011-04-30T10:08:00.001-07:00

So I've been watching Tangled with the kids. And now that I've seen it three times, I have questions.

The first one is, if cutting Rapunzel's magic hair undoes all the healing she's performed with it (as evidenced by Mother's turning to dust after it is cut), then why doesn't Flynn's hand injury come back?

The second is, was the magic tear that heals Flynn a one-time thing, or does Rapunzel now have magic tears? If she DOES have magic tears, how could she live happily ever after? I would think having magic healing tears would be a tough burden; so many injured and dying people to heal and yet she has to weep for all of them to heal them? And if she takes a break from her weeping, and tries to have a little fun, she has to feel guilty, because she has to think of all the people she is now not healing.

And yes, I know, as people have been telling me my whole life, I have "thought WAY too much about this." What can I say? Born with it!

2010-10-27T10:47:00.000-07:00

Watching Back to the Future on the big screen for the FIRST TIME was amazing! I was only seven when the movie premiered- and although I watched it hundreds of times in subsequent years and saw the sequels in theaters, I have never seen the movie so clearly, and in such detail.

It really is a great story, and meticulously told.

Kyle bought the blu-ray disc and we watched some of the special features last night. One of the documentaries has Robert Zemeckis and Bob Gale talking about the painstaking process of writing the script- they talk about how they laid the story out on index cards and how for every idea they came up with (for example, "Marty invents the skateboard"), they had to then create another scene ("show that Marty can skateboard") which plants the seed for the audience and pays off later in the movie.

It took them five months to finish the script, and it's easy to see why it took them so long. It's because the script is so well written! Every idea is fully fleshed out, every character is true. Every idea comes to fruition, there are no wasted, pointless scenes and random dead ends, like so many movies.

And like every great comedy, there are no "jokes," per se. What I mean by that is that the humor comes from the characters and the situation that they're in, and so it comes from a place of truth. When Marty realizes that he's sitting next to his own teenaged father at the cafe, his bug-eyed reaction is funny because, well, who WOULDN'T react that way on seeing their own father at their age? We can all put ourselves into that situation, we can all relate- and so the humor comes from that connection with every audience member- a moment of truth. And Marty's discomfort when his own mother is trying to make out with him before the dance is so entertaining- it's so fun to watch him squirm and Michael J. Fox plays the moment brilliantly for laughs, but the laughs come from our understanding of the characters and from the situation, not from (as is so common in movies nowadays) a pop culture reference, a mocking nod to another film, or a clever put-down.

The closest thing in Back to the Future to those kinds of cheap laughs would perhaps be the "Ronald Reagan is president" bit, and all the jokes about Marty's "life preserver" - (his orange 80's style vest). But since Ronald Reagan really WAS president in the 80's and WAS formerly an actor- even the more "jokey" jokes (what I mean by that is jokes that aren't character-driven) contain truth.

I just don't see that in a lot of comedies nowadays. It seems to me like most comedies today rely on the audience's understanding of pop culture more than their understanding of human nature.

Back to the Future also sets itself up in a totally natural way- laying out the characters and letting the story unfold without any obvious exposition. Anyone who has heard me talk about movies knows that my pet peeve is obvious exposition.

For those of you that aren't English teachers, exposition is a natural part of any story, when details that are important to the story are shown or explained. These are the details you NEED to know for the rest of the story to make sense. EVERY movie contains exposition- some just do it better than others.

My favorite example of GOOD exposition is in the movie Steel Magnolias. What we need to know to set up the rest of the movie is that two of the characters, neighbors, have a long-standing feud. Now, a BAD MOVIE, using OBVIOUS EXPOSITION would have another character say something like "Oh, Drum and Ouisa. Those two are ALWAYS fighting!" Instead, the scriptwriter gives us the information brilliantly with this conversation:

OUISA: "Get those magnolias out of my tree!"
DRUM: "The judge has not yet decided whose tree that is, exactly."

Perfect exposition. We know everything we need to know. Drum and Ouisa are at odds. Their enmity goes back a long way- they will even argue over something as stupid as whose property a neighborhood tree is growing on.

Back to the Future is a great example of good exposition, because it holds to the old saying "show, don't tell." And that is difficult, because Back to the Future needs to give us a LOT of information before Marty can go back in time. We need to know about the relationships between George and Lorraine McFly (including how they met, their first kiss, etc.), George McFly and Biff, Mr. Strickland and the McFly family, Doc and Marty, Doc and the rest of town (they think he's a lunatic), and it also needs to set up that Marty can skateboard, play guitar, charm women, and that he's following in the footsteps of his own father by being fearful and cowardly about putting himself out there as a musician. Not to mention the whole history of the clock tower, the lightning strike, etc.

When you think about it, what a DAUNTING task for a writer, and yet the screenwriters manage to make it all seem effortless and organic, each piece of information coming onscreen naturally for us to absorb, understand and process. The woman from the Hill Valley preservation society tells us about the clock tower and the famous lightning storm while teenaged Marty, true to character, is just macking on his girlfriend (in other words, no dumb scene where Marty happens to wander into the Preservation Society in a totally out-of-character moment). The wrecked car gives Biff both a reason to be at the McFly home so we can meet him and highlights what a jerk he is. Linda's boy trouble gives Lorraine a reason to tell her daughter the details of her and George's first meeting, their first dance and first kiss, and the fact that she pours herself a Vodka in the meantime shows us how unhappy Lorraine now is with her husband. And the opening scenes of the film, set in Doc's workshop, tell us all about his eccentricities and his genius before he even gets a moment of screen time.

When you think about it, it's no wonder it took them 5 months to write the script! I mean, wow! But BOY does it make a difference. I wish more writers in Hollywood understood that. To me, the only movie studio of late that really understands good storytelling is Pixar.

Anyone seen a really well-written movie lately that wasn't from them? I can't think of any. I think the last one I really really liked as far as an original story with great writing, and truly character-driven humor- was the first Pirates of the Caribbean. To me that was perfect storytelling.

Everything else that good has been a Pixar kids movie! It's sad that filmmakers take more time crafting a great story for children while supposedly more intelligent adults get fare like The Love Guru. Hey, Hollywood, grown-ups like good comedies, too! Just because you're not making Schindler's List doesn't mean you need to fall back on R-rated humor and making fun of other movies (although I guess it's working out for the Wayans brothers, who've made an entire career of it).

The Way I Was

2010-10-18T13:11:00.000-07:00

No one wants to be alone on a sunny day, but what is it about a cool, cloudy fall day that goes so well with absolute silence?

For the first time in what seems like many years, I am alone on such a day, enjoying my brain. My brain is ordinarily on loan to three monkey-sized tyrants and filled with their thoughts, requests and random gibberish. Sometimes, when I am trying to write an email or even make sense of conversation with another adult, I have to actually tell them that I NEED MY BRAIN FOR A FEW MINUTES.

So it's nice to have it to myself today. The sudden feeling of independence made a pleasant memory bubble up in my mind; the memory of moving into my first apartment.

It was a dump of a one bedroom about half a mile or so from the campus of Illinois State, where I was a then a junior. My rent was $360 a month and that included furniture and utilities (wow!).

For the first time in my life, I was living without my family, without a roommate, with no one in the world whose opinion to consult but ME.

I remember walking to Jewel-Osco on a cool cloudy day and buying a broom, a mop, cleaning products, eggs, soup, milk. I remember thinking that $50 was a lot for groceries (ha!). I remember putting everything away in my apartment- broom in the broom closet, milk in the fridge and thinking how empty the giant fridge looked with my groceries for one- how big the broom closet seemed with my broom and cans of Campell's Chicken'n'Stars.

I know this probably makes me selfish, but oddly enough I remember it as one of the best days of my life.

I Want to Be a Nurse

2010-02-12T07:51:00.000-08:00

No, not literally. I don't want to be a nurse. I actually kind of get woozy when I think about blood draws.

But I was talking to my friend Amy, who had just watched her sister Emily give birth (to a gorgeous little girl, by the way). She was talking about how Emily was in labor for SO long that the doctors wanted to give her a C-section, but the nurse just kept pushing Emily to keep going, not give up, and deliver the baby naturally (which she did!). Amy said something that really stuck in my head- she said - "You know, the doctors didn't really do anything except breeze in every now and then and check on her progress. It was the nurses who were there through all the pain, putting up with Emily when she was upset, coaxing her, pushing her, encouraging her. The doctors just came in to see if they could do anything, and when they couldn't they just left."

And something about it struck me, because I so often have the doctor mentality, especially with my children. How often when they complain to me ("my finger hurts!" "my toe hurts!" etc.) do I actually answer with the phrase, "What do you want me to do? Do you want a band-aid?" And if they say no, I shrug my shoulders and move on, when what they really want is a nurse to sympathize and encourage, to practice compassion, and FEEL WITH them.

I've posted about this before, in my note about compassion because it is such a glaring weakness in my character. I want to go straight to the fix so I don't have to put up with any whining- I don't want to deal with pain, and suffering and hard times.

And yet, I want great relationships! And great relationships are usually forged between NURSE and patient, not doctor and patient because who is there when times get tough and the pain becomes unbearable? The NURSE.

So... I want to be a nurse. I need help. Pray for me!

The Chicken or the Egg?

2009-11-16T20:57:00.000-08:00

Is it just me or does every women's magazine from Parents and Family Circle to Marie Claire and Cosmopolitan feature the same articles over and over again?

They all fall into 8 basic categories.

1. The Five Minute Health or Beauty Tips. This is the part of the magazine that shares such valuable nuggets as: "Don't have time to work out? Lug out that vacuum and give your carpets a good cleaning! It could work off up to 100 calories and as a bonus, your house will be clean!" Also, "We all want to take care of our skin, but who has time? Our experts give you the 5 MUSTS for healthy skin!" (article will then proceed to detail a nightly skincare routine that takes $50 worth of creams and 30 minutes a night).

2. Recipes. They will all be some variation on chicken and pasta with an added ethnic spice ("Spicy Saffron Rice Bowl!")or some type of disgusting looking mini-pizza ("You can't get much simpler than an English muffin with Spaghetti-O's and spinach! Your kids will beg for seconds on these fun (and healthy!) little pizzas!")

3. Kids Say the Darndest Things/Revolting and Humiliating Tales. In mommy magazines like Parents and Women's Day, it's the former. You know, "My Aunt Linda came over for Thanksgiving dinner and my four year old son, Java (always an ambiguous or feminine name for a boy) said "Mommy, why can't I put my teeth in a glass of water by my bed like Aunt Linda?" In the young women's magazines, it's the Revolting and Humiliating Tales, which I won't even put an example of because most of them are gross and involve people getting their period on things.

4. Household Organization. This section is all about stating the obvious. "Cut the clutter! Go through your closets, cabinets and garage. Take everything you don't need out for an impromptu yard sale! You'll clean your house and maybe even make enough to take your family out to dinner!" And often it includes the sneak sales pitch, "Stow your stuff! These colorful bins, $24 at The Great Indoors, are big enough to hold Johnny's soccer cleats AND class science project, plus they add sophistication and fun to your entryway!"

5. The Sob Story Article. This is the closest thing in a women's magazine to real journalism. Usually, this is a good, in-depth article that tells a story we often have already heard on CNN or read about in a paper or heard from a friend of a friend, but at least it's well-written and touching. For the mommy mags, autism, SIDS, dealing with divorce are classic topics. For the young women's mags, anorexia, alcoholism, and abusive relationships are common.

6. The More Light-hearted But Still Serious Article. As the holidays approach, the More Light-hearted But Still Serious Article will be Holiday themed- how to have a "simpler" holiday, avoid excessive materialism and credit card debt, and get along with relatives always works at this time of year. The rest of the year it will be articles on playdates, birthday parties, politeness, safety and enjoying motherhood for the mommy mags, blind dates, being single, being in a couple, weekend getaways for the YM's.

7. Sex. In the young women's magazines, this section is far more extensive, and gives plenty of quotes from 'real' men about what they REALLY want in bed, and what they think is attractive in a woman. In the mommy magazines, the poor men only get a page or two and the tone of them is a complete downer- "We know you don't feel attractive after nursing a newborn all night, but experts say sex will bring you and your spouse closer!" or "Take 5 minutes for sex!" - as if sex in any form would be a miracle.

8. Crafts That You Will Not Do. Halloween costumes you will not sew, cupcakes you will not bake, candlesticks you will not cover in glittery pipe cleaners, no matter how cool it looks in the picture. 'Nuff said.

Each magazine has between a year and two year's worth of material in each of the 8 Basic Categories, which are rotated and recycled over and over again, so that by the time you have subscribed to any of them for about 18 months, you already feel like you pretty much "get" everything any of them has to say.

That being said, I continue to read them. I usually flip right to the Household Organization category, as if simply by reading a couple of tips on how to organize that are more commonsense than anything else my house will suddenly be clean and organized. I sob over the Sob Story Articles. I sometimes even buy the materials for the Crafts I Will Not Do, even though I know I will not do them.

I can't figure out if it's because that's what they print, or if they print what I secretly want to read... I guess that's a chicken and egg question, like that of the Paparazzi. Are they worse for taking those pictures or are we worse for gawking at them? (I'll admit I wanted to read about ANGELINA'S LIES today while I was in line at Ralph's...)

Wild Things

2009-10-25T12:34:00.001-07:00

Went to see Where the Wild Things Are with Kyle and the boys. I'm honestly not sure how I feel about it.

There were some beautiful moments in this film, though NONE of them included the Wild Things- they were all just lovely moments of truth from Max's point of view, that brought back to me all the passions and heartaches of being a kid. Max, crying because his sister's friends broke his igloo, Max destroying his sister's room because he is so angry about it, Max lying under his mom's desk, looking lovingly at her face at an odd angle, pulling gently on the toe of her pantyhose to get her attention (that last one was so beautifully shot and so honest it made me cry).

But when he finally gets to Where the Wild Things Are, the movie just disintegrates. Some of the Wild Things have personalities that reflect aspects of Max's own (or of people in Max's life). One of them, called "KW" obviously represents Max's sister Claire and his feelings about her growing up. She goes off and talks to "Bob" and "Teri" (a couple of owls who everyone seems to understand except for Max and Carol; Carol is the angry monster who exemplifies Max at his wildest and angriest), leaving her old playmates who long to have her back. Bob and Teri are standing in for his sister's friends, who Max can't understand.

But KW is the only Wild Thing who is even remotely likeable. The other Wild Things are so obnoxious and self-centered. They fight, and argue, snap at each other and expect Max to fix all of their problems for them, and when he doesn't, they threaten to eat him! Living with them looks like a horrible nightmare!

To top it off, they live in a bland, colorless world that reminds me more of something from Cormac McCarthy's post-apocalyptic The Road than of someplace a wild young boy would dream of going.

Where is the color, joy, and magic of childhood? The most fun thing the beasts do in this movie is have a dirt clod war, and everyone in it ends up squabbling and angry anyhow.

I just don't get it. Why would anyone imagine this? If they did, why wouldn't they want to wake themselves up as soon as possible?

I always thought the book was about a young boy's quest for self-control, his need to tame the Wild Things inside of him so that he can function in the world, and that the beasts represented his own wild side- his becoming their King representing his mastery of his own emotions.

And I guess the movie did present the story in that way. However, it made the journey from out-of-control young boy to emotionally mature young boy look dark, disturbing and fraught with danger.

To me, acquiring self-control is an act of great courage that leads to great reward! How interesting it would have been if the movie focused more on Max's efforts to control the beasts within rather than what happens once they make him their King (which happens right away with no struggle).

What if he had to trick each beast, trap it, train it, bend it to his will, each one symbolizing a struggle in his life? Wouldn't that have made a much more interesting movie, and one much more true to the theme of the story?

As it was, I just didn't see the point of anything that was happening. Granted, seeing Wild Thing Carol and his uncontrollable anger helps Max to understand how destructive his own behavior is. But other than Carol and KW, the other characters were superfluous, though I love Catherine O'Hara, so I enjoyed her performance as Judith, because she is amazing in everything she does!

I also would not recommend seeing this with your kids. There is nothing bad in it (except bratty behavior from Max), but after an hour of obscure psychobabble amongst colorless creatures that seems to go nowhere, my kids were restless. Once the popcorn ran out, they all wanted to go home.

Compassion

2009-10-08T06:56:00.000-07:00

When Jesus heard what had happened (John the Baptist was killed), he withdrew by boat privately to a solitary place. Hearing of this, the crowds followed him on foot from the towns. When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them and healed their sick.

- Matthew 14:13-14 NIV

As a mother, no passage of the Bible is more convicting to me than this very simple story of Jesus's compassionate heart.

Yes, we all know that Jesus was an amazing teacher, healer and friend to the persistent crowds who followed him wherever he went, some loving him truly, others just hoping to witness a miracle.

Some people just take this story as they find it, and say to themselves, "Well, yeah- he was the Son of God! That's what he ought to have been doing, and more besides!"

But keeping in mind that Jesus was also a human being, look at the circumstances of Jesus's compassion.

His great friend, the one who baptized him, has just been beheaded for the entertainment of Herod's dinner guests. Not only is Jesus sad for his friend, but he probably could see in this sordid tale an echo of his own future suffering. He knew the road he was going to walk, and I can't imagine this event not bringing the reality of his own death to mind, the way the death of a friend pulls the ground out from under you or I, revealing that our own hold on life is tenuous at best.

I'm sure Jesus wanted to be alone to mourn his friend, and probably to have some quiet prayer time to receive comfort from God. He withdraws PRIVATELY to a SOLITARY place. He expects to land his boat and maybe have a quiet nature walk. To hear only silence echoing in his eardrums- no needs to meet, no hurting people demanding his time, no critiques or questions from disciples or Pharisees. This is certainly what I would have wanted, and as Jesus was a man, I'm sure it's what he wanted too.

Can you imagine landing your boat under those circumstances and seeing a mob of people waiting to throng you with their endless, endless needs? Heal me! Teach me! Help me!

I think I would have crumbled and wanted to die. That's how I feel sometimes when Kyle is out of town, especially if one of the kids is sick or if I have an especially busy week with a number of places to run.

I've always desperately needed alone time to rejuvenate myself. I love to read quietly, sit quietly, and let my thoughts meander without interruption.

I think that's why motherhood was so rough for me the first couple of years. I just could not get used to never being alone, never NOT having a need to meet. Endless, endless days- changing diapers, wiping snot, giving baths, comforting, soothing, crying myself to sleep because I was so tired I couldn't sleep (the irony!). And now that there's less of those physical needs, there's more mental and emotional needs to meet.

I feel that my brain is co-opted by three ceaseless little tyrants- "Mom. What did you do with my McDonald's coupon. Mom. When can we use my McDonald's coupon? Mom. Why don't we ever go to McDonald's? Mom. Mrs. Summers says it's time to put the Halloween decorations up. Mom, can we put them up? Mom, can I have a snack? (Right now behind me is Owen reading the Pop Tarts box- "Mom, can we order a Pop Tart shirt? All I want is that shirt. That one right there. Look at it.") Mom, Mom, Mom, Mom! Make a decision! Make it now! And know that whatever you say, however abstracted your brain is, we will try to hold you to it with the tyrannical words "BUT YOU SAID...".

(This problem actually led me to ban the words "you said" from my house last year; I told them the only thing that matters is obeying Mommy RIGHT NOW. I'm not sure if that was exactly the right way to handle it.)

I just can't imagine having patience for the multitudes like Jesus did. I can't even deal with three little children without a break!

And yet, much in need of a solace, hoping for a little "me" time- Jesus lands, sees the crowds, and HAS COMPASSION on them and heals their sick!

How did he do it? There's really no answer except that he relied on God utterly, and never pulled back his heart. No matter how tired he was, his heart could still go out to hurting people; he never withdrew into himself and pitied himself as I so often do. He totally exemplified the grace of compassion; the act of feeling with others.

For me, compassion rarely springs of its own accord, but needs to be cultivated. It's just not a natural part of my nature. I am a more logical person, and I've noticed that for passionate, emotional people- compassion flows more naturally.

A few of them, I like to watch and learn from; my cousin Stephanie, my friend Mike. They are natural "feelers" and as such, never lack empathy and always have time for friends who are in need. I noticed that even back in high school, everyone felt that Mike was their best friend. I used to wonder what it was about him that endeared him to everyone, regardless of peer group or status, and now that I am a Christian, I realize that the same thing that draws people to Mike is what drew people to Jesus; true and deep compassion for others.

I truly desire this for my own heart, and fervently believe that it isn't good enough to simply say "I'm not that type of person" and leave it at that. Just because I have to work hard to be compassionate doesn't mean I am off the hook. When the kids are crying and need me, and I am emotionally worn out, wanting to just wall myself into a cone of silence and retreat, is it okay to do that? Are my kids going to stop needing just because I want to stop giving? Of course not!

And I know that God is with me in each baby step I take toward feeling with my kids, experiencing with them each scrape, bruise, or welling feeling of injustice, and not brushing them off with my usual "Well, you shouldn't have been running in the house!" or "Well, life's not fair!"

Not that I'm saying my kids are never in the wrong. Of course there's a time to check whining and complaining, a time to review the house rules (no running), a time to teach the valuable and true lesson that life isn't fair. But I know all these lessons mean so much more coming from a warm and compassionate woman who loves them like crazy than from a mom who turns her back on them when they are in need because she just "can't deal with it right now!"

However, knowing that is one thing; doing it in the heat of the moment, when I am tired, cranky, and overwhelmed is quite another. That's when I need God and I need prayer.

2009-09-15T13:11:00.000-07:00

Many of you know that I was raised in a Christian home. People who grew up with me in Rochelle know that my parents were deacons and devoted attendees of our small, Protestant congregation, and that I was pretty much a goody-two-shoes.

There was no question of my ever having smoked, drank or "done it", and yet, I would never have defined myself as a Christian. Sure, if someone asked me, I'd say "Yes, I'm a Christian"- because I believed in God, and chose to believe SOME of the Bible (the parts I believed in were those I was already obeying... everything else I found convenient to chuck as "antiquated" or "unrealistic", because to believe that they were commands from God put me squarely in the wrong and that wasn't where I wanted to put myself).

For many years I was confused. I read my Bible every night before bed, truly pondering its words and wondering what they meant, how I was supposed to live. Living like a Christian according to the Bible seemed so unbelievably difficult and I wondered; who could possibly forgive seventy times seven? Who can go through their life without gossiping? Am I supposed to give all my money to the poor, like Jesus tells the rich young ruler? What do all these stories mean for my life?

And then there was the fact that most of the Christians I met seemed to irritate me. Number one on their list of faults (in my non-Christian mind) was that none of them seemed remotely to have sense of humor, except at the blandest and stupidest jokes. Number two was that none of them ever seemed to struggle with anything. Their husbands seemed so perfect and helpful, them so kind and patient. I never saw the slightest hint of humanity from any of them- no one ever had a bad day with their kids, no one ever struggled with their temper or with an unloving spouse. They were constantly saying things like "God is good", and "Amen" and "God worked", "I'm so blessed"- and I kept wondering what they meant. It sounded like they were using God as a band-aid to delude themselves into the idea that their lives were perfect.

And I really didn't feel I fit anywhere into these perfect lives. I was struggling with a little boy who was two and a half and barely spoke, who would have incredibly difficult, hours-long screaming fits and I was nursing another little one. My husband was disengaged, struggling with his own problems and had little time or sympathy for mine. My own nerves were frazzled and my temper shot. I'd yell at my kids, expect WAY more of them than was possible for toddlers, and shoot bitter and sarcastic barbs at my husband any time I got the chance, hoping to break him down, that his reserve would crumble and I would get through to him in some way- trying desperately to get my message across: I AM SLOWLY DYING.

What could I possibly have in common with Christians? And yet- I couldn't reject Christianity any more than I could embrace it. Life without God seemed a life without hope.

And so I went on.

It wasn't until I moved to Santa Clarita three years ago, and was invited out to the Church of Christ by Ron and Cheryl Hammer that I really "got it."

There I met Christians who were totally committed to following Jesus's example and living according to the words of the Bible. They were kind, loving, forgiving, accepting, merciful, compassionate- to their husbands, their children, their neighbors and even to me, a total stranger. I was cowed by their graciousness, especially as I compared it with my own bitter, cynical attitude.

But this was par for the course as far as my experience with Christianity; it would have been easy to let myself off the hook by branding them as saints and telling myself that "I'm just not that good of a person. It's easy for people like them to be kind."

And I'm sure that's what I would have done had it not been for their total and complete honesty. Not one of them pretended they were perfect or had it all together; actually quite the opposite! They were instead confessing their sins to each other, revealing the imperfect attitudes of their hearts and encouraging each other to change. This was the salt that gave flavor to their conversation, zest to their personalities and attracted me like a moth to a flame.

Honesty!

All of the women I met were trying to be good wives and mothers and none of them pretended it was easy. They never diminished the pain of the struggle; yet they never denied the worth of following Jesus. I listened with relish as they described their efforts to be women of God, and their very human failures and successes.

And as I listened to them; I laughed! I actually laughed! They were FUNNY. Funny Christians... I had thought they didn't exist, like ligers and unicorns- but I now realize it's because they were truthful. They had no desire to cover up who they were, to mask their faults and failings. Rather, they were willingly exposing them to each other, not to poke fun at them or just for a laugh but to change, to grow closer to God, to follow Jesus more closely.

I was convicted. I wanted to be different. I studied the Bible with these women and I learned about God in a way I hadn't in years of plodding through chapters and verses on my own, because I understood that I needed to change from the inside out. This wasn't about "being good"- this was a total heart transplant, in which all of my previous attitudes and assumptions about my place in the universe needed to be thrown out and God placed at the center of my life.

It wasn't always easy- I was used to putting myself at the center of my life. My needs. My wants. My notions of justice, fairness, equality. What I think. What I feel. What I deserve. It wasn't natural for me to think about God first. God's mercy. God's justice. God's compassion.

But once my thinking was turned toward God, I found that I didn't have to struggle so hard to "be good" - mercy, love, self-control, patience - all sprang to life in my heart as a natural fruit of turning to God, not as a result of any effort of my own. This was it! This was the secret! This is how these saintly women did it! Stayed patient, stayed loving even in the worst circumstances!

Does this mean I became perfect? Of course not! I struggled daily to turn to God for help, but I became more gentle, patient and kind with my kids, more helpful and forbearing with my husband, more honest about my own shortcomings (before that, my own faults were always the result of something someone else had done to me and no fault of my own, OF COURSE).

I was baptized nearly two years ago, on October 21, 2007 and I am happy to say I am a different person than the one I was. Not perfect. But different.

Why am I sharing all this? Because now that I am a Christian, I want to share some of my struggles to stay faithful and be a Christian woman. It's not going to be the total focus of my blog, but it will necessarily be a part of it, because Christianity is now the lens through which I view the world. I felt like I needed some kind of "statement of faith" on here though, because this blog goes way back to my pre-Christian days and I would never want to confuse anyone who is searching for the truth by writing as a Christian, but having old posts up that reveal all my old sinful attitudes. At the same time, I think it's hypocritical and wrong to remove the old posts; I want to stay in touch with who I was before I was a Christian- to be able to hear the biting, bitter sarcasm in my voice - to remember the lack of mercy with which I treated people, to remember my contemptuousness, my pride, my feelings of desperation- some of which came through in my writing, some of which are just personal recollections connected to the events I've written about.

I know very few people will read this, and some that do will probably say, "Well, I thought you were funnier when you were sarcastic and bitter" or something similar, and you may be right. Maybe I've crossed the line into the world of the UNFUNNY CHRISTIAN and am in it so deep now I can't even see how UNFUNNY I am.

I have one thing to say to you: Poop.

That one goes over pretty well in my house. Not your taste? Butt. Buttcheeks.

Any takers?

No? Come on, this is my best material, people! "That's gold Jerry, gold!"

I don't have a final thought... I've said what's on my heart.

The Revelation Continues

2009-07-05T13:45:00.000-07:00

Since last year's "aha" moment when Owen came face to face with his own mortality, Owen and Stewart's knowledge of death has grown in leaps and bounds.

They were discussing Michael Jackson's heart attack at the kitchen table on Thursday. Let's listen in:

Owen: He had a heart attack. That's when your heart stops working. Everybody dies. Everybody in the whole Earth. What will you do with me when I die Stewie? (Thinking). Ugh, what if you just put me in the dump?

Me: No! We'd put you in a nice grave and bring you flowers every day.

Stewart: (wanting to be nice, knowing as only a 5 year old boy can that flowers are a crap offering for a 7 year old) I would bring you toys, Owen. I would throw toys at you (the desire to be nice slowly being eclipsed by the desire to be funny)... I would dig you up and throw toys at your bones.

Great Green Gobs of Greasy Grimy Gopher Guts

2009-04-12T20:59:00.001-07:00

A short one today:

I made the boys some fish filets for dinner the other day.

"Is this the fish's guts?" Stewart asked.

"It's a fish and it's delicious," I said, immediately getting defensive, as Stewart is an extremely picky eater and I didn't like where this was headed.

"Yes, but are these the GUTS?" he insisted.

"Yes, I suppose so. But they're good," I replied grumpily.

To my surprise, he was THRILLED. "WHOA! Cool! We get to eat the fish's GUTS!!!" he exclaimed.

I must've had a weird expression on my face, because Owen explained helpfully; "He always wanted to eat the guts out of something."

He has been a little obsessed with "guts" every since we read "Runaway Ralph" and the children sing the song about "greasy, grimy gopher guts." But I had no idea we were dealing with a lifetime ambition, here.

Kyle Robert

2009-04-07T21:26:00.000-07:00

Two hilarious Kyle stories:

Kyle swears there's a Room of Requirement, a la Harry Potter, in the Cardinal Hotel (this second-rate establishment he stays at whenever he goes to Palo Alto due to its proximity to Ning headquarters).

When I asked him what that meant, he said it's a room with a mini-fridge and microwave, which none of the other rooms have.

"So why don't you look at the room number and request that one?" I asked.

"I can't. It moves. You never know when you're going to get it. Sometimes it's at one end of the hotel, sometimes at the other. And then when I go back to the same room, it's gone."

I am skeptical at this point, knowing that Kyle's sense of direction isn't exactly accurate. This is, after all, the man who was willing to bet his LIFE that UCLA was west of the 405 (not that he phrased it that way b/c he doesn't usually know which way is east or west- it was more like "I swear it's that way!").

"Well, why don't you look at the room number next time if you like having a fridge," I suggested.

But even as I was saying these words, they sounded wrong to me. Kyle is not a fan of leftovers, even at home, let alone when he is staying in a hotel. I'm cheap and would totally bag my food and 'fridge it. But I knew, without the slightest doubt, that Kyle would NEVER use a fridge or microwave at any hotel, ever. But I asked anyway. "Do you even USE the fridge or microwave?"

"No. But it just puts a little spring into my step, knowing it's there."

Amazing. Kyle Ford, ladies and gentlemen.

The next story is about a candy bag that Kyle swears gained sentience.

After Halloween last year, I let the kids pick out their favorite candies to eat and then put all the rest into a large paper gift bag to dispense on special occasions or to give away.

I never did give away any of that candy because Kyle ate most of it.

Every night, he'd sit down, and shake the bag, then paw around in it, looking for his favorites.

Things went well for about a week- he happily ate all the Snickers, Baby Ruths and Butterfingers.

But by week 2, things were getting bleaker. He had to dig a little harder and a little longer to get to worthwhile treats- the candy that floated to the surface always seemed second-rate- you know, little hard candies, plain caramels, dime-store lollipops, Tootsie rolls of various disgusting non-chocolate flavors- just general second-raters.

His forays into the bag began to last longer and be more frustrating.

"There's nothing but crap in this bag," he'd say frequently, and then dive back into it, scratching and scrambling like a raccoon.
He'd surface several minutes later with a tube of mini M&M's, or a Reese's peanut butter cup and be all pleased with himself. "I swear, this wasn't there before!" he'd say, with wonder and glee.

Finally, it got to the point where he began to flat out state that the bag was "giving" him things. "Let's see what the bag will give me tonight," he'd say, getting it down from its place atop the fridge.

"It's not giving you anything," I'd say. "Dump it out and take what you want and throw the rest away."

"I've done that before and there's nothing good in there. But when I put everything back in, something always appears. Like, last night I dug through this entire bag looking for these," he said, holding up a mini-Snickers. "Weren't there. But tonight, here they are! It depends on its mood. You never know what you'll get."

And the really crazy thing is... he was kind of RIGHT. Like, one night I dumped out the entire bag and ate all the Laffy Taffys out of it. Or so I thought. But it seemed like every time I peered into the bag, for weeks afterward, there would be one or two hovering about. Never enough to satisfy, of course, but enough to keep me peering into the bag, as if it were a crystal ball offering me a tantalizing glimpse of future riches.

I know Kyle felt the same way because one night, near the end of the bag's lifetime, Kyle exclaimed in frustration- "This bag will NEVER give me what I want! Like, say I want just three tootsie rolls. It will give me two. But never three. And if I go back tomorrow the third will be there!"

I wish I could say the bag met a glamorous end- but the sad truth is that we ate every piece of candy in there except the broken lollipops, at which point I finally tossed the mystical bag into the trash.

The Game of Life

2009-01-01T08:27:00.000-08:00

We had our traditional New Year's Eve "cheers and game night" last night. That means we play games and drink sparkling juice (the kids call it "cheers").

Kyle suggested that we play Life, which was quite an experience.

Wilbur was keen to play once he saw the little cars and he and Stewart instantly started driving them all over the game board. We should probably have just let Wilbur drive his car around but for some reason we tried to help him play. Every time he spun the wheel every piece would fall off the board, and at one point I found myself asking him if he wanted to pay $10,000 for life insurance.

Kyle just looked at me, and then over at Wilbur, who was gleefully handing out $5,000 bills from his pile of money, and said, "I don't think he wants life insurance."

Meanwhile, Stewart, who had just gotten married, flipped his car and the pieces scattered. "Ooops, I knocked my wife out. I punched her out of the car."

Lovely.

I don't think Wilbur understood the concept of marriage- though he latched onto the word, calling his little pink piece "Mary." "Will you put this Mary back in for me?" he asked continually, as every time he so much as looked at his car, he and his wife and daughter exploded out of it.

Owen did well with the gameplay and was definitely fired up over his salary and his wife and twin boys. However, he was a little bitter because, as he said, "I don't get to spend my money!"

I tried to remedy that by suing him for $200,000, but that didn't go over well.

I explained that, like real Life, this game wasn't so much about making choices to spend your money, but about various fees and charges coming your way.

We decided he might prefer Monopoly.

Maybe we'll do that in 2010.

Wilbur James

2008-11-18T21:01:00.000-08:00

It's been awhile since I've posted so I have to share some cute stories about Wilbur.

He is the most hilarious little guy. He seems way older than 2, as he has two older brothers to watch, and he seems to have a handle on everything a lot earlier.

For example, we took the kids to Chuck E. Cheese's last month, and as we were inserting tickets into the ticket cruncher to redeem them for crappy, useless prizes, Wilbur drifted over to the prize counter and peered through the glass.

"Wilbur?! What is he doing?" Kyle asked, concerned we'd lose him in the crowd.

But he came back a minute later and informed us of the following: "I need a chocwate wowipop."

Just like that. Like, "Uh, guys, I'm gonna need a chocolate lollipop now, so make that happen!" I was wondering where he thought I was going to pull a lollipop from when I realized they had Tootsie Pops at the prize counter!

So not only did the kid (who, by the way, can't possibly REMEMBER his last trip to Chuck E. Cheese) figure out the entire ticket system and go over on purpose to pick his prize, he also knew that Tootsie Pops have "chocwate" in them. I mean, wow. I think Owen might still have been screaming in terror at the sight of Churck E. at that age.

Another example of his initiative is the day he put himself down for a nap. We had been running errands all morning and he was super tired. I was hauling groceries in from the garage, and noticed he was missing. Then I heard that his white noise machine was on and his door was shut, and sure enough, when I peeked in, there he was, snuggled up with his blankie and sucking his thumb.

He tells hilarious knock-knock jokes, of his own devising. Here are a couple:

Knock Knock.
Who's there?
Awesome.
Awesome who?
Awesome me.

Knock knock.
Who's there?
Upside down.
Upside down who?
Upside down poop.

With such a knack for out-of-the-box comedy, I guess I shouldn't be surprised that his little potty, the one I had such great hopes of him using to put me out of the diaper buying game, is only used as a stage for his performances of Wiggles tunes, sung and played on his "ta-guitar."

"Well," my mom said philosophically, as Wilbur took the potty like a rock star and blared "play your tatair with Murray!" in the background, "He is performing on the potty, though it isn't quite the performance you were hoping for."

Of course, the ONE THING he doesn't pick up on early is potty training!!! Arggh!!! Really, Wilbur, I would've taken the potty training over any of your other quirky precocities! I could've lived without your knowing what a beer bottle looks like and liking-nay, LOVING- the taste of beer! Or your freakish knowledge of what Scooby Doo said and in which episode he said it! Or your ability to sing along with every song on the radio, even if it's the first time you've heard it! All this I could've lived without, if only you were potty trained. Or close. Or interested. Or had gone on the potty even one time by accident. But, alas.

However, he is a sweet little guy- and although far from perfect, he is FAR more obedient than my others were at that age. He will sit still for nail cleanings and tooth brushings, and even sat very still when I had to pull a million tiny barbs out of his hand on Halloween after he grabbed a cactus. "Mommy," he said, very seriously. "That flower hurt me."

"I know, baby. That was a cactus," I said, my eyes suddenly welling up because he is so precious- and he just keeps changing. The pain in his hand had taught him another lesson- the meaning of "cactus"- and he will never confuse one with a flower again.

Sensation by sensation, word by word, he is growing up- and as grateful as I am for that, I can't help but want to hold on to him NOW.

I guess that's why I wrote this.

Stew 2008

2008-06-27T08:52:00.001-07:00

Stew 2007

2008-06-27T08:48:00.001-07:00

Stew 2005

2008-06-27T08:47:00.001-07:00

Stew 2003

2008-06-27T08:45:00.001-07:00