In Louisiana on Sunday, at my aunt's bayou-side home, we celebrated my Maw-Maw's 80th birthday with two kinds of gumbo (shrimp and okra, chicken and sausage), potato salad, and a big white cake with pink flowers of icing. In attendance were all 6 of her children, 7 out of 10 grand-children, 4 out of 5 greats. The sixth one--now about the size of a sweet potato--elicited plenty of cooing and conversation. Even I'm growing more and more charmed at my stomach, whose bulge will not be restrained by spandex.
Since my mom has four sisters, family gatherings often consist of the women chatting in the dining room while the men watch the Saints on TV. Over birthday cake and iced tea, as I asked and they answered, I entered the sisterhood of Mothers. Alicia, my younger cousin, wishes someone would have told her how painful the recovery of childbirth is. My Aunt Sandy gained only 19 pounds in her first pregnancy. My cousin-in-law celebrated the epidural as joyfully as the birth, whereas my mother chose my dad over the anesthesiologist (the doc said only one other person could be in the room with her).
But perhaps most shocking of all is Maw-Maw, who delivered all six of her children without any epidurals. "When it was time to push, they gave me ether," she told me, "which numbs the pain for only a second." When her first grand-child arrived, Maw-Maw was only 40, still raising her own small kids. "But now I have all the time in the world," she smiled, "for my great-grand-children."
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Answer Me This
Ten years ago I was working my very first job out of college, beginning my first serious relationship, living for the first time in my own apartment. I wanted to write, but never really made the time. I was taking a ballet class, watching Sex and the City, and eating plenty of Amy's vegan pot pies. My world was transitioning from friend-centered to boyfriend-centered, which was kind of thrilling but mostly terrifying. Life was about to get much more complicated.
I must admit that when 9/11 happened I paused long enough to be shocked and saddened, then went about trying to figure out my own life. I was haunted by difficult pirouettes and an increasingly jealous boyfriend, not America-hating terrorists. So it took me awhile to start asking the kinds of questions that I wish more people were asking, even ten years later. Here I will issue a disclaimer: since I recognize that 9/11 is a highly taboo subject matter that even good liberals don't dare question, I am not in any way claiming to know "the truth." I am, however, intrigued by a number of FACTS, which raise some chilling questions. For example:
Why did scores of people (firefighters, police officers, and eye-witness newscasters alike) report hearing explosions in the towers, as though it were a controlled demolition?
Why are these the only steel buildings in the history of the world that have fallen in their own footprint from fires?
Why were bomb-sniffing dogs removed from the site in the days before the attack?
Why did the government issue a stand-down order to air defense?
Why were the towers closed the weekend before the attacks for an unprecedented "power down," in which all security cameras were turned off?
Why does no one talk about the fact that George Bush's brother, Marvin Bush, was head of security for the World Trade Center?
Why was the mayor of San Francisco warned not to fly on September 11?
And I could go on. There's so much information out there it's really rather daunting. Aside from way too many discrepancies about the attacks, there were the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan afterward. Ten years later, our military is still in both countries and our economy is in the toilet.
So, yes, I agree with the media and all those patriotic folks who declare that we should never forget the tragic events of September 11. But what good is memory without inquiry? What could be more patriotic than insisting that the government be held accountable to its citizens?
I must admit that when 9/11 happened I paused long enough to be shocked and saddened, then went about trying to figure out my own life. I was haunted by difficult pirouettes and an increasingly jealous boyfriend, not America-hating terrorists. So it took me awhile to start asking the kinds of questions that I wish more people were asking, even ten years later. Here I will issue a disclaimer: since I recognize that 9/11 is a highly taboo subject matter that even good liberals don't dare question, I am not in any way claiming to know "the truth." I am, however, intrigued by a number of FACTS, which raise some chilling questions. For example:
Why did scores of people (firefighters, police officers, and eye-witness newscasters alike) report hearing explosions in the towers, as though it were a controlled demolition?
Why are these the only steel buildings in the history of the world that have fallen in their own footprint from fires?
Why were bomb-sniffing dogs removed from the site in the days before the attack?
Why did the government issue a stand-down order to air defense?
Why were the towers closed the weekend before the attacks for an unprecedented "power down," in which all security cameras were turned off?
Why does no one talk about the fact that George Bush's brother, Marvin Bush, was head of security for the World Trade Center?
Why was the mayor of San Francisco warned not to fly on September 11?
And I could go on. There's so much information out there it's really rather daunting. Aside from way too many discrepancies about the attacks, there were the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan afterward. Ten years later, our military is still in both countries and our economy is in the toilet.
So, yes, I agree with the media and all those patriotic folks who declare that we should never forget the tragic events of September 11. But what good is memory without inquiry? What could be more patriotic than insisting that the government be held accountable to its citizens?
Monday, August 22, 2011
Skool Daze
This fall will be the first time in 27 years that I am not returning to school as either a student or a teacher. 27 YEARS, folks!
After graduating from college, I promptly went to work in education, as an aide with emotionally disturbed high school kids and then as a substitute teacher, which led me to realize I wanted a classroom all my own. Then it was on to grad school for two years (during which I got to teach comp classes at SSU), and after that, Nonesuch, where I taught for the past six years before deciding it was time to set sail.
As a kid boating around on Crystal Lake during the summer, I fantasized about new penny loafers and uniform blouses (with puffed sleeves!) But even better than new school clothes was shopping for school supplies: Trapper Keepers, five subject notebooks with pocket folders, glittery pencils... even picking out a new ruler felt like a divine treat. And then there were the added treasures that came with teaching, like accordion file folders and felt-tipped grading pens. Usually at this time of year I'm excitedly scratching out unit plans, salivating over grammar workbooks in catalogs, dusting my classroom, and picking out my new lesson plan book at Skool Daze.
But this year is different. This year I'm rounding the corner into my second trimester of pregnancy, consuming an alarming amount of birthing books and ginger ale, collapsing into late afternoon naps. And, don't get me wrong, it's marvelous. Never have I understood the corporal better than now, as another being invades my body and leaves me chronically queasy, tired, and fighting hard to button my pants. It's funny, because part of my motivation to take a reprieve from teaching was to focus more on my own creative expression, to allow myself to embody the writing life that I've craved for far too long. And yet this summer has felt like the ultimate sacrifice of self. Good-bye bikini pride. So long, vanity.
Still, it's a beautiful, surreal experience to hear the horse-trotting heartbeat of something that is growing inside of me. It's humbling to realize that as challenging as the first trimester has been, it's surely nothing compared to the actual labor, birth, and life-altering event that is to come. And though I'm grieving the back-to-school madness that I am no longer a part of, I'm also celebrating the incredibly fortunate timing of this pregnancy. For the next six months I am free to nurture myself through creative labor. I've already got a couple of journalistic assignments, a 5,000 word manuscript to whittle down for an October writing workshop, scores of shorter works to tinker with, and plenty of pregnancy-related pitches to toss at editors.
And with my waning nausea and waxing energy, I am free, for the first time in 27 years, to devote my creative energy to myself, without the clutter of grades and gold stars. Just me, my laptop, and the budding of new life.
After graduating from college, I promptly went to work in education, as an aide with emotionally disturbed high school kids and then as a substitute teacher, which led me to realize I wanted a classroom all my own. Then it was on to grad school for two years (during which I got to teach comp classes at SSU), and after that, Nonesuch, where I taught for the past six years before deciding it was time to set sail.
As a kid boating around on Crystal Lake during the summer, I fantasized about new penny loafers and uniform blouses (with puffed sleeves!) But even better than new school clothes was shopping for school supplies: Trapper Keepers, five subject notebooks with pocket folders, glittery pencils... even picking out a new ruler felt like a divine treat. And then there were the added treasures that came with teaching, like accordion file folders and felt-tipped grading pens. Usually at this time of year I'm excitedly scratching out unit plans, salivating over grammar workbooks in catalogs, dusting my classroom, and picking out my new lesson plan book at Skool Daze.
But this year is different. This year I'm rounding the corner into my second trimester of pregnancy, consuming an alarming amount of birthing books and ginger ale, collapsing into late afternoon naps. And, don't get me wrong, it's marvelous. Never have I understood the corporal better than now, as another being invades my body and leaves me chronically queasy, tired, and fighting hard to button my pants. It's funny, because part of my motivation to take a reprieve from teaching was to focus more on my own creative expression, to allow myself to embody the writing life that I've craved for far too long. And yet this summer has felt like the ultimate sacrifice of self. Good-bye bikini pride. So long, vanity.
Still, it's a beautiful, surreal experience to hear the horse-trotting heartbeat of something that is growing inside of me. It's humbling to realize that as challenging as the first trimester has been, it's surely nothing compared to the actual labor, birth, and life-altering event that is to come. And though I'm grieving the back-to-school madness that I am no longer a part of, I'm also celebrating the incredibly fortunate timing of this pregnancy. For the next six months I am free to nurture myself through creative labor. I've already got a couple of journalistic assignments, a 5,000 word manuscript to whittle down for an October writing workshop, scores of shorter works to tinker with, and plenty of pregnancy-related pitches to toss at editors.
And with my waning nausea and waxing energy, I am free, for the first time in 27 years, to devote my creative energy to myself, without the clutter of grades and gold stars. Just me, my laptop, and the budding of new life.
Friday, August 12, 2011
Mountain Nuptials
Last Saturday, on a cool summer mountain in central coastal California, M and I attended our first wedding (other than our own) together. Raina and Paul hosted nearly 100 people for an entire weekend event that was kicked off with an Indian feast and bonfire on Friday night. The next morning people helped string paper lanterns above the outdoor dance floor and concoct mason jar photo-and-lavender displays. Guests slept in cabins or tents (we chose the latter) at this beautiful Buddhist retreat center where we were asked not to swat or kill the mosquitoes :)
M, who knows me well enough to know that this is my tendency, cautioned early on: Now don't you go comparing every little thing to our wedding and making yourself feel bad. Who, me?
What's life without making myself feel bad? I joked, to which he responded by hugging me close. The beauty of getting older, though, is the realization that the world is not one giant competition unless you make it one. Maybe it was the very genuine and friendly guests, maybe it was all those fireside S'mores, but not only did I feel totally serene in my enjoyment, I had no desire to chastise myself for not thinking of stacks of classic books as table centerpieces (seriously, how cute is that?)
For our own ceremony, I'd asked my friend Judith to choose a reading. I decided to wait until the wedding to hear it (we share a love of words; I trusted her judgment). When she read "The Invitation" by Oriah Mountain Dreamer I couldn't help but cry; serious choked-up snort-like sobs came out of me, not polite, elegant tears. So it was with total delight that I listened to the groom's mother recite the same poem for their ceremony, held in a hushed grove of towering redwoods. (The newlyweds told us later that our own ceremony, and especially our vows, had inspired theirs. We were beyond honored.)
The rest of the evening was dreamy: the bride in her retro veil and boots, the groom in his rock-n-roll jacket, dancing to The Pixies' Here Comes Your Man; sparkling cider toasts that were by turns hilarious and weepy, with a perfect joke made by the (single) best man's mother (I'm so glad you two have found each other, she deadpanned. I wish someone else would find somebody); and enough booty-shaking, foot-stomping glory to keep everyone warm as the ocean air rolled in.
Later that night, exhausted and cozy in our tent, M and I listened to the sounds of the die-hard wedding party. We remembered our own wedding celebration, that feeling of being on top of the world. The best part is, we still are.
M, who knows me well enough to know that this is my tendency, cautioned early on: Now don't you go comparing every little thing to our wedding and making yourself feel bad. Who, me?
What's life without making myself feel bad? I joked, to which he responded by hugging me close. The beauty of getting older, though, is the realization that the world is not one giant competition unless you make it one. Maybe it was the very genuine and friendly guests, maybe it was all those fireside S'mores, but not only did I feel totally serene in my enjoyment, I had no desire to chastise myself for not thinking of stacks of classic books as table centerpieces (seriously, how cute is that?)
For our own ceremony, I'd asked my friend Judith to choose a reading. I decided to wait until the wedding to hear it (we share a love of words; I trusted her judgment). When she read "The Invitation" by Oriah Mountain Dreamer I couldn't help but cry; serious choked-up snort-like sobs came out of me, not polite, elegant tears. So it was with total delight that I listened to the groom's mother recite the same poem for their ceremony, held in a hushed grove of towering redwoods. (The newlyweds told us later that our own ceremony, and especially our vows, had inspired theirs. We were beyond honored.)
The rest of the evening was dreamy: the bride in her retro veil and boots, the groom in his rock-n-roll jacket, dancing to The Pixies' Here Comes Your Man; sparkling cider toasts that were by turns hilarious and weepy, with a perfect joke made by the (single) best man's mother (I'm so glad you two have found each other, she deadpanned. I wish someone else would find somebody); and enough booty-shaking, foot-stomping glory to keep everyone warm as the ocean air rolled in.
Later that night, exhausted and cozy in our tent, M and I listened to the sounds of the die-hard wedding party. We remembered our own wedding celebration, that feeling of being on top of the world. The best part is, we still are.
Friday, August 5, 2011
A Day at the Fair
I remember fairs being mostly about the Zipper, candy apples, and corn dogs. But not the Sonoma County Fair! This here is a true down-home, farm fresh event that yielded more adventure than I ever imagined.
We saw Kenyan acrobats, the world's smartest pig (with the cutest old lady trainer), a heifer-judging contest, a toothpick sculpture of San Francisco that took 36 years and nothing more than Elmer's glue to construct. Lots of quilts, decorative cakes, canned goods, Lego sculptures, and incredible flower displays. Ditto elderly couples with giant hats and slow gaits.
We watched a former student gracelessly ride the mechanical bull and cigarette-smoking betters clamor around the horse track. And then it was on to my very favorite part of the event, the animal barns. M cooed and mooned over chickens, rabbits, sheep, goats, and cattle. We watched a giant heifer nurse her eager calf.
And then, after a wonderfully corny sing-along to This Land Is Your Land, after butter-soaked baked potatoes and a half-gallon of lemonade, it was time to follow the setting sun and head on home. We didn't even ride any rides (too expensive), but I can't remember ever having so much fun at a fair.
We saw Kenyan acrobats, the world's smartest pig (with the cutest old lady trainer), a heifer-judging contest, a toothpick sculpture of San Francisco that took 36 years and nothing more than Elmer's glue to construct. Lots of quilts, decorative cakes, canned goods, Lego sculptures, and incredible flower displays. Ditto elderly couples with giant hats and slow gaits.
We watched a former student gracelessly ride the mechanical bull and cigarette-smoking betters clamor around the horse track. And then it was on to my very favorite part of the event, the animal barns. M cooed and mooned over chickens, rabbits, sheep, goats, and cattle. We watched a giant heifer nurse her eager calf.
And then, after a wonderfully corny sing-along to This Land Is Your Land, after butter-soaked baked potatoes and a half-gallon of lemonade, it was time to follow the setting sun and head on home. We didn't even ride any rides (too expensive), but I can't remember ever having so much fun at a fair.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Some Ideas For Improving My Blog:
1. Include photos with the posts. Everyone (including me) enjoys some nice visual stimuli to accompany the otherwise verbally-insistent chronicles of the life of a 32 year-old woman "in transition."
2. Post more videos, songs, and links to outrageously enticing things, like the Paddy-Cake Cats and the Drunk Baby! 2a. Learn how to insert such links.
3. Vary the content: less solipsism, more cultural critique; less narcissistic blather, more meaningful social commentary.
4. Find A Focus. Not something already-taken and obvious, like DIY projects and veganism, but something catchy and mind-bending, like Why the 90s Were Awesome and Under-appreciated.
5. Make controversial claims that elicit unruly commentary. Respond to commentary.
6. Join Facebook, post a link to my blog, and watch the readership spike, along with my self-esteem and overall feeling of love and connectedness in this otherwise isolating behemoth of 21st century intimacy.
2. Post more videos, songs, and links to outrageously enticing things, like the Paddy-Cake Cats and the Drunk Baby! 2a. Learn how to insert such links.
3. Vary the content: less solipsism, more cultural critique; less narcissistic blather, more meaningful social commentary.
4. Find A Focus. Not something already-taken and obvious, like DIY projects and veganism, but something catchy and mind-bending, like Why the 90s Were Awesome and Under-appreciated.
5. Make controversial claims that elicit unruly commentary. Respond to commentary.
6. Join Facebook, post a link to my blog, and watch the readership spike, along with my self-esteem and overall feeling of love and connectedness in this otherwise isolating behemoth of 21st century intimacy.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Bugs and Thunder
It's been seven years since I've been in the USA for the month of July...
Usually I'm in some balmy foreign locale where the 4th passes in a muted, unrecognizable way, too busy am I feasting on new food, language, people, and all manner of cultural hullabaloo to remember to get misty-eyed about my own country's "independence." But this year, I was back in Burlington, Vermont, where I lived for six gloriously transformative years, and where I graduated from college a decade ago (!?!) Together with my best college friends and our respective partners, I joined throngs of Vermonters down at Lake Champlain's waterfront for an hour-long fireworks display whose spastic awesomeness not even the swarms of feathery, mysterious bugs could taint.
After spending the day kayaking and swimming on the lake (loads of fun) and then walking for a couple of miles down the bike path in a warm downpour (also fun), we were freshly showered, fed, and hopeful that the rain would spare our last night of nostalgic good times. We gorged on cotton candy and memories, both sweet and fuzzy and reassuring, and watched the sun go down to the tune of thousands of expectant celebrants. Endlessly entertaining were the 12 year-old boys who seemed veritable authorities on explosives ("this one's called The Secret! ") and the crazy drunk guy who dubbed himself a Bicentennial Soldier and who greeted each new explosion with "Rock-N-Roll!" And even though our bras became bug cemeteries and the rain did eventually catch up to us in a dramatic midnight thunderstorm, I relished the heated fanfare of what is no longer my least favorite holiday (I think St Patrick's Day has always held that title anyway).
We've been in New England now for over two weeks, and though I loved swimming in the icy Atlantic and strolling the quaint streets of Providence, nothing comes close to the resplendent beauty of Vermont. I love the endless fields of bright green grass punctuated with red barns and white steeples, the road-side junk shops and spontaneous covered bridges, the wild orange irises and middle-of-the-night trains blowing through the tiniest of towns.
And I've loved getting to show M my other home, the one I chose for myself when I was 18 years old and desperate for something new, the one that taught me how to bike up hills and eat vegetables and substantiate my opinions and form friendships that have weathered the storms of time and space. If I had to stay in-country this summer, at least I got to come back to Vermont.
Usually I'm in some balmy foreign locale where the 4th passes in a muted, unrecognizable way, too busy am I feasting on new food, language, people, and all manner of cultural hullabaloo to remember to get misty-eyed about my own country's "independence." But this year, I was back in Burlington, Vermont, where I lived for six gloriously transformative years, and where I graduated from college a decade ago (!?!) Together with my best college friends and our respective partners, I joined throngs of Vermonters down at Lake Champlain's waterfront for an hour-long fireworks display whose spastic awesomeness not even the swarms of feathery, mysterious bugs could taint.
After spending the day kayaking and swimming on the lake (loads of fun) and then walking for a couple of miles down the bike path in a warm downpour (also fun), we were freshly showered, fed, and hopeful that the rain would spare our last night of nostalgic good times. We gorged on cotton candy and memories, both sweet and fuzzy and reassuring, and watched the sun go down to the tune of thousands of expectant celebrants. Endlessly entertaining were the 12 year-old boys who seemed veritable authorities on explosives ("this one's called The Secret! ") and the crazy drunk guy who dubbed himself a Bicentennial Soldier and who greeted each new explosion with "Rock-N-Roll!" And even though our bras became bug cemeteries and the rain did eventually catch up to us in a dramatic midnight thunderstorm, I relished the heated fanfare of what is no longer my least favorite holiday (I think St Patrick's Day has always held that title anyway).
We've been in New England now for over two weeks, and though I loved swimming in the icy Atlantic and strolling the quaint streets of Providence, nothing comes close to the resplendent beauty of Vermont. I love the endless fields of bright green grass punctuated with red barns and white steeples, the road-side junk shops and spontaneous covered bridges, the wild orange irises and middle-of-the-night trains blowing through the tiniest of towns.
And I've loved getting to show M my other home, the one I chose for myself when I was 18 years old and desperate for something new, the one that taught me how to bike up hills and eat vegetables and substantiate my opinions and form friendships that have weathered the storms of time and space. If I had to stay in-country this summer, at least I got to come back to Vermont.
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