I had a moment of grace today. My husband worked on the lights on the Christmas tree with my daughter’s help while my son, who just had his first piano lesson, sat at the piano and played a halting, one-handed version of the chorus from “Ode to Joy.” Coincidentally, “Ode to Joy” is the song that my husband and I listened to as we marched hand-in-hand out of the church where we got married. I enjoyed the scene from the kitchen while I cooked Sunday dinner. I have a lot to be thankful for.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Community organizing
My in-laws are very cool people. They both just recently retired – my mother-in-law from teaching and my father-in-law from a career in journalism – but you would never know it from how busy they are. And they’re not just busy with stamp collecting or Alaskan cruises. (Not that there’s anything wrong with that. If you’ve worked for forty years and have decided that stamps and cruises are your thing, then God bless. You’ve earned the right to spend your time any way you want to, short of torturing small animals or grandchildren.) One of the things that they are busy with is community organizing. Remember the sneer on Rudy Guiliani’s face when he spat out that term during the Republican convention a couple of months ago? “Barack Obama was a community organizer.” Pause, sneer, snort. “What is that?” Applause. What an ass he was. I enjoyed the editorializing in response to that speech: “Jesus was a community organizer” and “Our nation was founded by a band of community organizers.” Community organizers do good work.
One of the projects in which my in-laws are involved is an attempt to get a college-prep charter high school approved to be built in a nearby town. The town is less than ten miles away from the upscale town where we live, but it couldn’t be more different in its demographics and income levels. It is impoverished old industrial town and, I’m estimating, inhabited by about 80% black people and Latinos. They have scant resources, huge classes, high dropout rates, and low test scores. My mother-in-law recently invited me to go to a meeting to “learn more about” the charter school proposal. I am in fact concerned about education reform, so I eagerly accepted the invitation. I figured I would be listening to a presentation, perhaps offering some perspective or advice or otherwise getting involved in working on a strategic plan. I like watching presentations and working on strategic plans. These activities are fun and interesting to me.
After my in-laws picked me up to drive to the meeting, I learned a little more about where we were heading, and I realized that I need to ask more questions the next time I am invited to a meeting by community organizers. It wasn’t exactly a strategic planning session. It was a demonstration to demand that the charter school be approved by the town’s school board at its monthly meeting. We met in a church basement with about two- or three-hundred other people, mostly families from that community but also a number of people from surrounding areas who were there with church groups or social service organizations. In the church basement, a light-skinned black woman in red boots and a red wrap gave us our instructions – stick with the group as we walked together to the high school for a school board meeting, sit together in the middle of the auditorium, cheer for the charter school proposal presenters, and leave together at exactly 8:30 PM, whether or not the school board meeting was over. Then another woman, more cheerleader-ish than the first woman and also wearing red, stood up and led the “pep rally” portion of the meeting, encouraging the crowd to chant, whoop, and holler good-naturedly as we walked the two blocks to the school.
Before I knew it, I was handed a red t-shirt and swept out the door with the crowd. We walked to the high school together, marching and chanting:
What do we want: CHARTER SCHOOLS!
When do we want it: NOW!
This was a bit out of my comfort zone. As my husband pointed out after I told him about the demonstration, “You usually don’t like to dive right into things.” My typical style is to observe and gather information before I become a vocal proponent of something. I’ve never been involved in a march or a protest. I have, though, knocked on doors and gotten into verbal scuffles over political issues, but only after I’ve done my homework. There was no time for homework in this situation. These families wanted a charter school now, and I was there to help. Marching and chanting were the kinds of help they needed at that moment.
After we arrived at the meeting and settled into our seats, the school district’s superintendent introduced a number of school board members and district officers, who were sitting in a row up on the stage in front of us. The president of the school board, seated in the middle like a Grand Inquisitor, was a white woman who looked a little bit like a toad. She sternly reminded the audience members of the rules and time limits for guest speakers. She seemed particularly surly in her admonishment to parents of young children that they take unruly children outside so they wouldn’t disturb the proceedings. Then, after a brief introduction of the charter school leadership team, the head of the charter school company, a small, youngish white woman wearing a pantsuit and boasting both a PhD and a great vocabulary stood at a microphone on the floor of the auditorium and began to address her remarks to the members of the school board.
As if on cue, every child under the age of five (there were at least ten in the auditorium) promptly started to throw tantrums, except for the sweet little boy in the row right in front of me. He seemed to be around four, the same age as my daughter, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. He didn’t have any crayons or toys, but he amused himself by looking around at the crowd and giving his mother hugs and kisses. He was at that wonderful age when he was in love with his mama, just like my daughter is right now. Ten times a day my little girl sighs, “Mama, I love you,” or “You are so pwetty.” I wish I could bottle these moments up to uncork and savor when she is a teenager, stomping and slamming doors.
After a number of parents shuffled their wailing toddlers out of the hall, the presentation continued and evolved into a Q and A between the charter school leadership team and the school board about finances and taxes. The school board clearly opposed the charter school on the basis of the lost tax revenue that it would entail for the main high school in the community. As planned, our group of two- or three-hundred red-shirt wearing fellow demonstrators rose and left the auditorium en masse before the meeting adjourned, so I don’t know if things started to look up for the charter school team, but the board didn’t seem very happy with the plan at the time we left.
Despite my marching and chanting, I still don’t know how I feel about the charter school plan that was presented that night. I can’t imagine how helpless it must feel to have a child in a crappy, dangerous school and to have such limited resources that they are stuck there, without any alternatives. Charter schools offer alternatives, and for that reason I hope that the school board approves it. The families who were demonstrating for their right to provide their children with a better education deserve to win their battle.
The flip side, though, is that charter schools come at a cost to the other schools in the district. What happens to the students who don’t have the motivation or the family support to apply to the charter school? I would like to think that introducing some competition into the system raises everybody’s game, but I don’t know if the rules of capitalism apply to schools. (Given what’s happening in our economy, I don’t even know if the rules of capitalism apply to capitalism.) It goes without saying, though, that raising the level of educational opportunities for all children is good for everyone in our society, and that every kid deserves a good education.
One of the projects in which my in-laws are involved is an attempt to get a college-prep charter high school approved to be built in a nearby town. The town is less than ten miles away from the upscale town where we live, but it couldn’t be more different in its demographics and income levels. It is impoverished old industrial town and, I’m estimating, inhabited by about 80% black people and Latinos. They have scant resources, huge classes, high dropout rates, and low test scores. My mother-in-law recently invited me to go to a meeting to “learn more about” the charter school proposal. I am in fact concerned about education reform, so I eagerly accepted the invitation. I figured I would be listening to a presentation, perhaps offering some perspective or advice or otherwise getting involved in working on a strategic plan. I like watching presentations and working on strategic plans. These activities are fun and interesting to me.
After my in-laws picked me up to drive to the meeting, I learned a little more about where we were heading, and I realized that I need to ask more questions the next time I am invited to a meeting by community organizers. It wasn’t exactly a strategic planning session. It was a demonstration to demand that the charter school be approved by the town’s school board at its monthly meeting. We met in a church basement with about two- or three-hundred other people, mostly families from that community but also a number of people from surrounding areas who were there with church groups or social service organizations. In the church basement, a light-skinned black woman in red boots and a red wrap gave us our instructions – stick with the group as we walked together to the high school for a school board meeting, sit together in the middle of the auditorium, cheer for the charter school proposal presenters, and leave together at exactly 8:30 PM, whether or not the school board meeting was over. Then another woman, more cheerleader-ish than the first woman and also wearing red, stood up and led the “pep rally” portion of the meeting, encouraging the crowd to chant, whoop, and holler good-naturedly as we walked the two blocks to the school.
Before I knew it, I was handed a red t-shirt and swept out the door with the crowd. We walked to the high school together, marching and chanting:
What do we want: CHARTER SCHOOLS!
When do we want it: NOW!
This was a bit out of my comfort zone. As my husband pointed out after I told him about the demonstration, “You usually don’t like to dive right into things.” My typical style is to observe and gather information before I become a vocal proponent of something. I’ve never been involved in a march or a protest. I have, though, knocked on doors and gotten into verbal scuffles over political issues, but only after I’ve done my homework. There was no time for homework in this situation. These families wanted a charter school now, and I was there to help. Marching and chanting were the kinds of help they needed at that moment.
After we arrived at the meeting and settled into our seats, the school district’s superintendent introduced a number of school board members and district officers, who were sitting in a row up on the stage in front of us. The president of the school board, seated in the middle like a Grand Inquisitor, was a white woman who looked a little bit like a toad. She sternly reminded the audience members of the rules and time limits for guest speakers. She seemed particularly surly in her admonishment to parents of young children that they take unruly children outside so they wouldn’t disturb the proceedings. Then, after a brief introduction of the charter school leadership team, the head of the charter school company, a small, youngish white woman wearing a pantsuit and boasting both a PhD and a great vocabulary stood at a microphone on the floor of the auditorium and began to address her remarks to the members of the school board.
As if on cue, every child under the age of five (there were at least ten in the auditorium) promptly started to throw tantrums, except for the sweet little boy in the row right in front of me. He seemed to be around four, the same age as my daughter, and I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. He didn’t have any crayons or toys, but he amused himself by looking around at the crowd and giving his mother hugs and kisses. He was at that wonderful age when he was in love with his mama, just like my daughter is right now. Ten times a day my little girl sighs, “Mama, I love you,” or “You are so pwetty.” I wish I could bottle these moments up to uncork and savor when she is a teenager, stomping and slamming doors.
After a number of parents shuffled their wailing toddlers out of the hall, the presentation continued and evolved into a Q and A between the charter school leadership team and the school board about finances and taxes. The school board clearly opposed the charter school on the basis of the lost tax revenue that it would entail for the main high school in the community. As planned, our group of two- or three-hundred red-shirt wearing fellow demonstrators rose and left the auditorium en masse before the meeting adjourned, so I don’t know if things started to look up for the charter school team, but the board didn’t seem very happy with the plan at the time we left.
Despite my marching and chanting, I still don’t know how I feel about the charter school plan that was presented that night. I can’t imagine how helpless it must feel to have a child in a crappy, dangerous school and to have such limited resources that they are stuck there, without any alternatives. Charter schools offer alternatives, and for that reason I hope that the school board approves it. The families who were demonstrating for their right to provide their children with a better education deserve to win their battle.
The flip side, though, is that charter schools come at a cost to the other schools in the district. What happens to the students who don’t have the motivation or the family support to apply to the charter school? I would like to think that introducing some competition into the system raises everybody’s game, but I don’t know if the rules of capitalism apply to schools. (Given what’s happening in our economy, I don’t even know if the rules of capitalism apply to capitalism.) It goes without saying, though, that raising the level of educational opportunities for all children is good for everyone in our society, and that every kid deserves a good education.
Saturday, November 15, 2008
With apologies to quantum physicists…
I just broke down and took my kids to see High School Musical 3 today. Not that they really had to twist my arm - I enjoyed High School Musical and HSM2 way more than I should have. The show lost some of its magic for me in its leap to the big screen, though. The songs weren’t as catchy, the characters didn’t grow or surprise me (except when the gay guy invited a girl to the prom- not really growth, but a bit of a surprise), and there was no conflict. Although my kids loved it, proclaiming it their favorite of the series, I think even they felt a little bored by Troy and Gabriella’s lack of edginess. As soon as he climbed into his car seat afterward, my six-year-old asked if we could listen to the Eels, which we have in the CD player. Specifically, he wanted to hear “Dog Faced Boy,” and, craving a little subversiveness myself (let’s face it – despite having a couple of harmless songs on Shrek movie soundtracks, Mark Everett is a deeply disturbed individual), I quickly obliged, and we all happily sang along during the drive home from the theater.
Coming home from the school today
Crying all along the way
Ain't no way for a boy to be
Begging ma to shave me please…
Ma won't shave me
Jesus can't save me
Dog faced boy
Life ain't pretty for a dog faced boy
Upon reflection, maybe I should remove the Eels from the car CD changer until the kids are both out of elementary school.
The Eels CD made me think about a documentary that my husband and I saw about Mark Everett’s father, Hugh Everett, who was a famous and influential physicist until he committed suicide when Mark was in college. I imagine that this family dynamic, combined with a gene pool fed by crazy genius genes – Mark Everett’s schizophrenic sister also committed suicide -- has something to do with the dour tone of most of the Eels’ music.
Dr. Everett was a pioneer in the field of quantum physics who hypothesized the idea of alternate universes. Somehow this relates to string theory. I can’t even pretend to understand the theory or its implications beyond the most basic level.(1) I think the idea is that rather than the traditionally accepted four dimensions of reality -- three space dimensions plus one time dimension – there are actually somewhere between seven and twelve dimensions. This is the only way to explain the funky, illogical ways that various subatomic particles and objects in space behave. Dr. Everett pushed this idea further to suggest that, in these alternate dimensions, alternate versions of ourselves may be living entirely different lives than the ones that we are aware of.
This idea is beyond creepy to me. Four dimensions is quite enough for me to handle, thank you very much. (Perhaps this is one reason I'm having a hard time with fiction writing.) Not only that, but string theorists seem to be a little too goofy to take seriously as scientists. Their research is peppered with terms like “graviton” and “fuzzball,” which makes it sound like these guys are just messing with us. Are they scientists or Austin Powers villains?
Evidently string theorists are engaged in an academic war with other physicists who think that string theory is a load of hooey. The other school of thought (don’t know what it’s called, but I'm sure it has a catchy name) posits that four dimensions are in fact enough to explain everything in the universe. There was a profile of one of the four-dimension science guys in The New Yorker about six months ago. Again, I can’t remember his name, but he was a renegade kind of guy, a “maverick”, if you will, who dropped out of the Ivy League and for several years lived in a trailer by the beach, surfed for half the day and thought about math for the rest of the day until he refined his theory and made it presentable to the scientific community. Compared to string theory, his theory was simple and earthbound, and it was like a hand grenade thrown into the field of quantum physics.
The debate still rages on, I’m sure, in terms that are way beyond my comprehension level. But one of the things that I think is cool about the debate, or the way that the New Yorker piece explained it, is that all these science guys seem to know that their work is, at least for the foreseeable future, purely theoretical and can be neither proven nor disproven. They are really engaged in a debate about faith, not science. They are trying to understand the world, and they value one theory over another based on how “beautiful” it is. By “beautiful”, they mean aesthetically pleasing. Really, this was how the scientists who were interviewed explained their motivations and values. Not being a mathematician, I’ve never experienced math as a beautiful thing, but I think I understand what they mean. They appreciate harmony, symmetry, balance, and a satisfying sense of resolution in their theories. They want to be surprised, but they need their theories to engage with their intuitive understanding of the world. In the absence of “proof,” they need their equations and hypotheses to connect with them on both an intellectual and an emotional level.
(1) Even Wikipedia can’t boil string theory down into a concise framework; see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/String_theory, which is indecipherable.
Coming home from the school today
Crying all along the way
Ain't no way for a boy to be
Begging ma to shave me please…
Ma won't shave me
Jesus can't save me
Dog faced boy
Life ain't pretty for a dog faced boy
Upon reflection, maybe I should remove the Eels from the car CD changer until the kids are both out of elementary school.
The Eels CD made me think about a documentary that my husband and I saw about Mark Everett’s father, Hugh Everett, who was a famous and influential physicist until he committed suicide when Mark was in college. I imagine that this family dynamic, combined with a gene pool fed by crazy genius genes – Mark Everett’s schizophrenic sister also committed suicide -- has something to do with the dour tone of most of the Eels’ music.
Dr. Everett was a pioneer in the field of quantum physics who hypothesized the idea of alternate universes. Somehow this relates to string theory. I can’t even pretend to understand the theory or its implications beyond the most basic level.(1) I think the idea is that rather than the traditionally accepted four dimensions of reality -- three space dimensions plus one time dimension – there are actually somewhere between seven and twelve dimensions. This is the only way to explain the funky, illogical ways that various subatomic particles and objects in space behave. Dr. Everett pushed this idea further to suggest that, in these alternate dimensions, alternate versions of ourselves may be living entirely different lives than the ones that we are aware of.
This idea is beyond creepy to me. Four dimensions is quite enough for me to handle, thank you very much. (Perhaps this is one reason I'm having a hard time with fiction writing.) Not only that, but string theorists seem to be a little too goofy to take seriously as scientists. Their research is peppered with terms like “graviton” and “fuzzball,” which makes it sound like these guys are just messing with us. Are they scientists or Austin Powers villains?
Evidently string theorists are engaged in an academic war with other physicists who think that string theory is a load of hooey. The other school of thought (don’t know what it’s called, but I'm sure it has a catchy name) posits that four dimensions are in fact enough to explain everything in the universe. There was a profile of one of the four-dimension science guys in The New Yorker about six months ago. Again, I can’t remember his name, but he was a renegade kind of guy, a “maverick”, if you will, who dropped out of the Ivy League and for several years lived in a trailer by the beach, surfed for half the day and thought about math for the rest of the day until he refined his theory and made it presentable to the scientific community. Compared to string theory, his theory was simple and earthbound, and it was like a hand grenade thrown into the field of quantum physics.
The debate still rages on, I’m sure, in terms that are way beyond my comprehension level. But one of the things that I think is cool about the debate, or the way that the New Yorker piece explained it, is that all these science guys seem to know that their work is, at least for the foreseeable future, purely theoretical and can be neither proven nor disproven. They are really engaged in a debate about faith, not science. They are trying to understand the world, and they value one theory over another based on how “beautiful” it is. By “beautiful”, they mean aesthetically pleasing. Really, this was how the scientists who were interviewed explained their motivations and values. Not being a mathematician, I’ve never experienced math as a beautiful thing, but I think I understand what they mean. They appreciate harmony, symmetry, balance, and a satisfying sense of resolution in their theories. They want to be surprised, but they need their theories to engage with their intuitive understanding of the world. In the absence of “proof,” they need their equations and hypotheses to connect with them on both an intellectual and an emotional level.
I think that when you experience this kind of connection with something in the world, whether it's a movie, a scenic vista, a math equation, or a song, it illuminates some truth of human experience and our connection to each other. This is true whether it expresses deep sadness or joy, hope or despair, or the promise of resolution to a baffling conundrum. I believe that these connections also illuminate a connection to a higher power that provides an intrinsic order and meaning towards which we all strive.(2) "Beautiful" in this sense is very different from "pretty", which may be nice to look at but illuminates nothing. I love it that my children seem intuitively to distinguish the soulful, despairing beauty of Eels songs from the prettiness of the kids in High School Musical. But I may need to be more careful about introducing too much of the darker side of beauty too soon so I don't blow their minds before they reach second grade.
(1) Even Wikipedia can’t boil string theory down into a concise framework; see http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/String_theory, which is indecipherable.
(2) It occurs to me that perhaps string theory allows for this higher power idea and that it exists on the additional dimensions that string theorists infer. Maybe science and spirituality are in fact approaching an explicit synthesis, not just an implicit one. OK, now I am blowing my own mind.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
Blog dork
In case anyone is wondering, I am doing this blog thing for a few reasons. Number one, because it makes my ramblings seem more important if I can imagine that there might someday be an audience for them. I even imagine my kids or future unborn grandchildren stumbling across this someday in cyberspace. The problem with that is that I need to watch what I write. Don’t want the kids to know everything, after all, even if they are adults when they read this.
Another is to practice writing for my in-progress thinly veiled autobiographical novel. I know, you can’t wait to read about my awkward middle school years and my flag-twirling period in high school, but you’re just going to have to be patient. Getting the ideas out of my head and onto a screen is a bit like giving birth – not as physically taxing, obviously, but accompanied by a little bit of the feeling I had during my 24-plus hours of labor with my first child. Lots and lots of teeth grinding with nothing much worthwhile to show for it, just another centimeter dilated after three hours of hard labor. Hopefully, the more I work on this, the easier it will become, just like it is easier to pop out the sixth baby than the first one. (Or so I’ve heard. I have no intention of finding out firsthand.) I was thinking that if I am writing for an audience, even an imaginary one since I may never tell anybody my blog address, I might be more motivated to write more and write better.
The biggest reason, though, is that it makes me happy. Oddly and inexplicably happy. I drive my kids to school or wait in the checkout line at the grocery store and instead of being annoyed with traffic or slow cashiers I think about what to write next.
But, besides all of those reasons, the initial shot in the arm for my first entry really did come from the election of Barack Obama (hooray – still a thrill). I was just rereading that entry and it seems to be hopelessly schmaltzy and sentimental. And, to my post-modern self-reflexive horror, I wrote in unabashed, heartfelt adulatory tones about Oprah. This is particularly embarrassing to me at the moment because I decided yesterday that I should do some reconnaissance into this so-called blogosphere into which I am dipping my toes. There are huge numbers of women bloggers out there, writing about home and kids, who have funny and interesting things to say. One of them in particular, whose entry about buying a minivan made me laugh out loud, wrote in her profile the following:
“...That is right about when I realized I had become a boring suburban housewife. Secret shame? My first post was about my life changing epiphany during an Oprah show. That day’s show was: How not to be a lame-assed housewife watching Oprah.”1
OK, I don’t spend a lot of time watching Oprah. None, really, in a typical week. Maybe if I am stuck at home because of three feet of snow or a flu outbreak. I really do admire her, though. And I am still unapologetically psyched about Obama, so I forgive myself for my earnestness in that entry. I’m just embarrassed to be a blogging mama cliché, writing about Oprah in my very first entry ever. My inclination is to go back, delete it from the blog, print it out, and put the letter in a box for my kids to read when they are old enough to understand it but not old enough to be embarrassed by it. At the very least, I’d like to revise it to make it a little less dorky. But, I’m going to swallow my pride and let it stand. I did, in fact, write what I wanted my kids to know about, and, ultimately, I’m more of a serious, earnest, dorky person than an funny, ironic, cool person. But that’s mostly OK with me, even if it’s a little embarrassing sometimes.
1. I’m nothing if not a rule follower. This is my footnote for the quote that shamed me. I’m not sure of the proper way to cite a blog, but I’ll adapt the classic MLA format: Anne Nahn, “About,”[ http://annenahm.com/?page_id=2], September 2008.
Another is to practice writing for my in-progress thinly veiled autobiographical novel. I know, you can’t wait to read about my awkward middle school years and my flag-twirling period in high school, but you’re just going to have to be patient. Getting the ideas out of my head and onto a screen is a bit like giving birth – not as physically taxing, obviously, but accompanied by a little bit of the feeling I had during my 24-plus hours of labor with my first child. Lots and lots of teeth grinding with nothing much worthwhile to show for it, just another centimeter dilated after three hours of hard labor. Hopefully, the more I work on this, the easier it will become, just like it is easier to pop out the sixth baby than the first one. (Or so I’ve heard. I have no intention of finding out firsthand.) I was thinking that if I am writing for an audience, even an imaginary one since I may never tell anybody my blog address, I might be more motivated to write more and write better.
The biggest reason, though, is that it makes me happy. Oddly and inexplicably happy. I drive my kids to school or wait in the checkout line at the grocery store and instead of being annoyed with traffic or slow cashiers I think about what to write next.
But, besides all of those reasons, the initial shot in the arm for my first entry really did come from the election of Barack Obama (hooray – still a thrill). I was just rereading that entry and it seems to be hopelessly schmaltzy and sentimental. And, to my post-modern self-reflexive horror, I wrote in unabashed, heartfelt adulatory tones about Oprah. This is particularly embarrassing to me at the moment because I decided yesterday that I should do some reconnaissance into this so-called blogosphere into which I am dipping my toes. There are huge numbers of women bloggers out there, writing about home and kids, who have funny and interesting things to say. One of them in particular, whose entry about buying a minivan made me laugh out loud, wrote in her profile the following:
“...That is right about when I realized I had become a boring suburban housewife. Secret shame? My first post was about my life changing epiphany during an Oprah show. That day’s show was: How not to be a lame-assed housewife watching Oprah.”1
OK, I don’t spend a lot of time watching Oprah. None, really, in a typical week. Maybe if I am stuck at home because of three feet of snow or a flu outbreak. I really do admire her, though. And I am still unapologetically psyched about Obama, so I forgive myself for my earnestness in that entry. I’m just embarrassed to be a blogging mama cliché, writing about Oprah in my very first entry ever. My inclination is to go back, delete it from the blog, print it out, and put the letter in a box for my kids to read when they are old enough to understand it but not old enough to be embarrassed by it. At the very least, I’d like to revise it to make it a little less dorky. But, I’m going to swallow my pride and let it stand. I did, in fact, write what I wanted my kids to know about, and, ultimately, I’m more of a serious, earnest, dorky person than an funny, ironic, cool person. But that’s mostly OK with me, even if it’s a little embarrassing sometimes.
1. I’m nothing if not a rule follower. This is my footnote for the quote that shamed me. I’m not sure of the proper way to cite a blog, but I’ll adapt the classic MLA format: Anne Nahn, “About,”[ http://annenahm.com/?page_id=2], September 2008.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Too much perspective
I spoke to a friend yesterday whose father was just diagnosed with cancer, and another friend today whose father-in-law just died last week. The second friend, the one who just lost her father-in-law, said that he had been in the hospital but had been improving and was planning on coming home. The night before he was to be released, he died, instantly, in his sleep. That was a source of comfort to my friend and her husband, as was the fact that her mother-in-law had also died a couple of years ago. “Even though my husband feels like an orphan,” she said, “at least he knows that his dad and mom are together now.”
It’s funny, in a sad way, to hear about a forty-year-old man feeling like an orphan. I have an image of this man, a rather large man, wearing knickers and tatty shoes, with a smudged face and an entreaty for more porridge. “Please, suh, may I have more?” But I get it. Every week it seems that I hear about another friends’ parent who is sick, or updates about those who have been sick and are declining. My own parents have had some serious health scares during this past year. If the phone rings at an odd time, I jump, wondering if this will be the call that everyone gets eventually, the one that tells you that you are an orphan.
I’m at that age where this is becoming increasingly likely. I’m also at that age where I’m starting to understand and respect who my parents are as people, not just as aids (or impediments) to my own well-being. Maybe this isn’t an age thing but just a maturity thing. Whatever it is, it’s disorienting, frightening, and liberating at the same time. No more excuses. No more blaming them for my own failures and insecurities (although they do still deserve some credit for the good things that have come my way). It’s all on me.
Ok, now I’m getting depressed thinking about my parents dying, and I don’t want them to ever read this and know how much I think about it. What I do want them to know, though, is that I am enjoying getting to know them as fellow adults. As with any friendship, it has been a trying as well as a rewarding relationship, but definitely more rewarding than it was in the past. I have seen both of my parents incredibly scared at times over the past year. I have seen them vulnerable and in need of help. They have seen close friends and family members die and have faced their own mortality head-on. I’ve also seen them emerge from their challenges stronger and more at peace than they were before, perhaps ever were in their adult lives. Too much f***ing perspective can do wonders for the soul.
My mom just sent me a little spiritual book called “Acceptance” that she told me changed her life. The theme of the booklet is the “Serenity Prayer”: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I can’t change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Basically, if you can’t change what bothers or upsets you, then learn to live with it and ask God to help. We can’t change the fact that our parents will eventually die, that we will all eventually be orphans, at least technically. But, we can learn to accept our own place in this world as adults. We can accept the baton that they are passing to us and head (slowly) towards the finish line, striding on our own two feet.
It’s funny, in a sad way, to hear about a forty-year-old man feeling like an orphan. I have an image of this man, a rather large man, wearing knickers and tatty shoes, with a smudged face and an entreaty for more porridge. “Please, suh, may I have more?” But I get it. Every week it seems that I hear about another friends’ parent who is sick, or updates about those who have been sick and are declining. My own parents have had some serious health scares during this past year. If the phone rings at an odd time, I jump, wondering if this will be the call that everyone gets eventually, the one that tells you that you are an orphan.
I’m at that age where this is becoming increasingly likely. I’m also at that age where I’m starting to understand and respect who my parents are as people, not just as aids (or impediments) to my own well-being. Maybe this isn’t an age thing but just a maturity thing. Whatever it is, it’s disorienting, frightening, and liberating at the same time. No more excuses. No more blaming them for my own failures and insecurities (although they do still deserve some credit for the good things that have come my way). It’s all on me.
Ok, now I’m getting depressed thinking about my parents dying, and I don’t want them to ever read this and know how much I think about it. What I do want them to know, though, is that I am enjoying getting to know them as fellow adults. As with any friendship, it has been a trying as well as a rewarding relationship, but definitely more rewarding than it was in the past. I have seen both of my parents incredibly scared at times over the past year. I have seen them vulnerable and in need of help. They have seen close friends and family members die and have faced their own mortality head-on. I’ve also seen them emerge from their challenges stronger and more at peace than they were before, perhaps ever were in their adult lives. Too much f***ing perspective can do wonders for the soul.
My mom just sent me a little spiritual book called “Acceptance” that she told me changed her life. The theme of the booklet is the “Serenity Prayer”: “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I can’t change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.” Basically, if you can’t change what bothers or upsets you, then learn to live with it and ask God to help. We can’t change the fact that our parents will eventually die, that we will all eventually be orphans, at least technically. But, we can learn to accept our own place in this world as adults. We can accept the baton that they are passing to us and head (slowly) towards the finish line, striding on our own two feet.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Wish lists
Christmas is fast approaching, and with it, all of the expectations for the limitless reservoir of gifts waiting to be delivered from the North Pole. My six-year-old son already has a list of twenty Lego’s sets that he wants. He hasn’t even started thinking about all of the other genres of toys, games, and sporting goods that he would like to find under the tree this year. My four-year-old daughter is more modest in her expectations, in quantity if not in quality. Her wish list only has four items on it, but these items are pretty ambitious. She would like a new kitchen (so would I!) and a horse (me too!). When my husband and I pointed out that the gifts on their lists are very expensive, my son patiently explained to us that they don’t cost Santa any money. Notwithstanding business lesson inherent in the overhead costs of legions of elves and a major manufacturing operation, it seems that a more age-appropriate lesson for my children this year is one of frugality and charity.
We are in a recession, after all, and we have just been exhorted by our inspirational president-elect to start making some sacrifices. We are coming down from a decade-long capitalistic binge, and we are all pretty hung over. The remedy this time isn’t a little hair o’ the dog. We’ve got to kick this thing cold turkey. Twelve steps all the way, baby. And, just as a recovering addict needs to reach out and help others in order to progress through treatment, I’m feeling a need to reach out to people who have been hit harder by the recession than we have. I want to go help at a soup kitchen, pack up Thanksgiving dinners to drop off at our church, buy new coats for children who don’t have enough warm clothes. I don’t feel like power shopping at the mall for multiple sets of Lego’s this year. To be honest, I have never been an enthusiastic power shopper. I’m finding that the pressure to tighten our belts and to make some sacrifices for the common good is oddly liberating.
The question is, how do I explain this to my kids? How do I instill a charitable inclination into them? Is there a certain level of maturity that’s required before you feel better about giving than receiving? My children have been inundated with stuff, practically all their hearts’ desires, since they were born. Their voracity for new loot isn’t their fault. They’re like crack babies, innocent victims of their parents’ failings. Their lifestyles are relatively modest compared to some of their friends in our well-heeled community. The age in years of our home computer is approaching double digits, we embrace hand-me-downs and leftovers, I can count on one hand our trips on airplanes since since they were born. But, we have a roof over our heads, good food to eat, and nice warm clothes to wear. We have lots of toys, a fancy school, ballet, soccer, chess, and piano lessons. We have more than enough.
I remember when I was little, maybe around seven or eight, my parents “adopted” a real live poor family for the holidays. From our church, we received a list of things that the family needed, clothing and household goods, and went shopping for these items, along with the makings for a holiday dinner. We packed all of these treasures into several boxes, drove to the other side of town (actually pretty close to where my father had grown up), and delivered them to a small grey brick ranch house with a postage stamp lawn made of dirt. A short, bald man in a white tee shirt answered the door. He accepted the boxes from my father while our family stood awkwardly on the cement front steps. I don’t remember coming away from this experience feeling good. I remember feeling weird and relieved when I got back to my own comfortable house. It might have helped if my family had discussed the experience – my parents weren’t big talkers when I was growing up – but I suspect that a brief awkward encounter on somebody’s front porch may not be enough to convey a sense of shared humanity and responsibility.
My goal for this holiday season will be to test this theory and do good for others in a way that my kids will feel good about. I don’t want the impact to be abstract to them, but I also don’t want it to be too awkward or frightening. I’d like to give them a taste of the joy of giving so that they want to keep doing more of it. My other goal will be to pare down the Christmas lists. Crack babies can’t give up their parents’ vices cold turkey – they need to be carefully weaned. I’m not sure how I’ll accomplish these goals and keep the peace in our home, but I need to remember not to underestimate the kids. They are sometimes very wise, and often very generous. If I let them in on the decisions and ask them for ideas for how to be more charitable, I am going to trust that they will embrace the spirit of the season – the giving spirit, not the shopping spirit - even if it means getting fewer Legos this year.
We are in a recession, after all, and we have just been exhorted by our inspirational president-elect to start making some sacrifices. We are coming down from a decade-long capitalistic binge, and we are all pretty hung over. The remedy this time isn’t a little hair o’ the dog. We’ve got to kick this thing cold turkey. Twelve steps all the way, baby. And, just as a recovering addict needs to reach out and help others in order to progress through treatment, I’m feeling a need to reach out to people who have been hit harder by the recession than we have. I want to go help at a soup kitchen, pack up Thanksgiving dinners to drop off at our church, buy new coats for children who don’t have enough warm clothes. I don’t feel like power shopping at the mall for multiple sets of Lego’s this year. To be honest, I have never been an enthusiastic power shopper. I’m finding that the pressure to tighten our belts and to make some sacrifices for the common good is oddly liberating.
The question is, how do I explain this to my kids? How do I instill a charitable inclination into them? Is there a certain level of maturity that’s required before you feel better about giving than receiving? My children have been inundated with stuff, practically all their hearts’ desires, since they were born. Their voracity for new loot isn’t their fault. They’re like crack babies, innocent victims of their parents’ failings. Their lifestyles are relatively modest compared to some of their friends in our well-heeled community. The age in years of our home computer is approaching double digits, we embrace hand-me-downs and leftovers, I can count on one hand our trips on airplanes since since they were born. But, we have a roof over our heads, good food to eat, and nice warm clothes to wear. We have lots of toys, a fancy school, ballet, soccer, chess, and piano lessons. We have more than enough.
I remember when I was little, maybe around seven or eight, my parents “adopted” a real live poor family for the holidays. From our church, we received a list of things that the family needed, clothing and household goods, and went shopping for these items, along with the makings for a holiday dinner. We packed all of these treasures into several boxes, drove to the other side of town (actually pretty close to where my father had grown up), and delivered them to a small grey brick ranch house with a postage stamp lawn made of dirt. A short, bald man in a white tee shirt answered the door. He accepted the boxes from my father while our family stood awkwardly on the cement front steps. I don’t remember coming away from this experience feeling good. I remember feeling weird and relieved when I got back to my own comfortable house. It might have helped if my family had discussed the experience – my parents weren’t big talkers when I was growing up – but I suspect that a brief awkward encounter on somebody’s front porch may not be enough to convey a sense of shared humanity and responsibility.
My goal for this holiday season will be to test this theory and do good for others in a way that my kids will feel good about. I don’t want the impact to be abstract to them, but I also don’t want it to be too awkward or frightening. I’d like to give them a taste of the joy of giving so that they want to keep doing more of it. My other goal will be to pare down the Christmas lists. Crack babies can’t give up their parents’ vices cold turkey – they need to be carefully weaned. I’m not sure how I’ll accomplish these goals and keep the peace in our home, but I need to remember not to underestimate the kids. They are sometimes very wise, and often very generous. If I let them in on the decisions and ask them for ideas for how to be more charitable, I am going to trust that they will embrace the spirit of the season – the giving spirit, not the shopping spirit - even if it means getting fewer Legos this year.
A letter to my kids, November 5, 2008
To my precious perfect children,
I would like you to understand, someday, when you are a little bit older, what an important day it is today. You are very lucky kids, for lots of reasons, but one of the best reasons to be a kid right now is that the first president that you will remember in your lifetime will Barack Hussein Obama. To me and daddy, and to your grandmas and grandpas, this is a very unusual name for a president to have. But, like a 70-degree November day, it’s not unusual to you. There are things in this world that you take for granted, and I hope you always will be able to. I want you to understand, though, why this day is so significant because I think it is important to be grateful for our blessings.
It is remarkable to me that you have friends who were born in China, India, and Poland. You have an aunt who was born in Mexico, a cousin who is Austrian, and a soon-to-be uncle who is a Syrian Kurd. Your world is filled with people with different colored skin and different ways of speaking. You both notice physical differences, but you point them out in ways that are entirely descriptive, with no shade of judgment attached to your observations. “The doctor had brown skin” you will say, or “The police officer is a lady.” What I would like you to understand is that there are still people alive who remember when women didn’t have the right to vote, or who heard their parents talk about life under slavery. Grandpa remembers having friends in high school who weren’t allowed to swim in the same pool as he was because they had brown skin. Can you imagine not being allowed to play with your friends who have different colored skin? What if I told you that Asher or Ella or Max wasn’t allowed to go to the beach or the playground with us? Can you imagine how Asher, Ella, and Max would feel? That is what life was like for your grandpas and grandmas and their friends when they were growing up.
When daddy and I were kids, in the places where we grew up, there were no specific rules against brown people going where white people went. But we didn’t really have friends or classmates who looked much different than we did. When we were kids, we didn’t have many teachers, doctors, or ministers who had brown skin or different-sounding names. This isn’t something that I will complain about; I don’t have the right to complain about it. I wasn’t the one being shut out of opportunities. Once I was old enough to make my own decisions, I could have sought out more opportunities to meet other kinds of people than those with whom I went to school or who lived in my neighborhood. You will not have to seek these opportunities. They will come to you. Your world will be a place of diversity and openness. You will have the opportunity to choose your friends and colleagues based on the content of their character, not on the color of their skin. Your lives will be, are being, enhanced by the incipient fruition of Dr. King’s dream.
I am so happy for you, and for me, and for all of us. So I celebrated today in a quiet way. I took a walk to the lake. The sun is shining and it’s still 70 degrees, just like it was yesterday, which is very unusual for November in northern Illinois. You haven’t lived through enough Novembers in Chicago to know that it shouldn’t be 70 degrees. I am choosing to view the weather optimistically today – I am choosing hope – and seeing it as a divine sign that we are at the dawn of a bright and shining new era rather than as evidence of global warming. The older I get the more I believe that the world presents us with signs and benchmarks, hints that we are on the right track or the wrong track. We just need to be open and alert to them, ask God to help us understand them, and trust our instincts.
On a typical day, I would have gone running, but I’m not crazy about running –it’s more a chore than recreation for me - and I want to enjoy this day as much as possible. As I was walking through the fallen leaves, I still saw some Obama yard signs, but all the other political signs were gone. One of the Obama signs had a yellow happy face Mylar balloon tied to it. This sight made me laugh and peer into the house with the sign in front of it, hoping to make contact with its owner to share a thumbs-up or a fist bump. It also made me cry a little bit.
I am a happy crier- I cry more easily from elation than from sadness - and I have been welling up on and off all day today. Oprah made me sob this morning with her “Hope Won” tee shirt and her exuberance. I don’t usually watch Oprah, but I saw her crying on TV last night while she watched Barack Obama give his acceptance speech at the rally in Grant Park and I made a point of watching her show today because I knew she would be celebrating. I was envious when a CNN anchorwoman spoke today about her neighborhood in New York City, where neighbors previously unknown to each other spontaneously came outside for a celebration when the victory was announced last night. Lake Bluff is no New York, but your dad and I did get to celebrate with some of our friends at an election party, where we hugged and cried and watched spellbound as Obama made his acceptance speech. As is typical of me, I wasn’t able to fully enjoy the moment. I felt a little numb, and I couldn’t quite believe the election was over. It takes me awhile to process happiness, so today is when the happiness is really taking hold.
Watching Oprah today made me think about the class she taught when I was in business school. She taught at Northwestern for two years, in between tapings of her show. Everyone, of course, wanted to take her class, even though we made fun of ourselves for being so frivolous. I was one of the lucky ones who got in. We had guest speakers every week, most of whom were A-list celebrities in the worlds of business and politics. Coretta Scott King was one of these guests. I wish I could remember exactly what she said, but I do remember the sense of calm confidence she exuded, and how much more impressed everyone in the class was by her than by the Fortune 500 CEOs who also spoke. One of my proudest possessions is the final paper that I wrote for that class, on which Oprah herself wrote margin comments and an “A”. I am a sucker for smart celebrities. My other proudest possession is a pair of t-shirts signed by the entire lineup of Wilco, whose songs make me swoon, and my favorite brush with fame was my encounter with Maya Angelou (you’ll learn who she is soon enough). I couldn’t care less about Paris Hilton or Brad Pitt, but I stutter and blush in the presence of eloquence (ironic, isn't it?).
I learned from Oprah’s class the best leaders are visionary, inclusive, and empowering to the people around them, with the highest expectations of themselves and others. I believe that this describes our new president-elect. Barack’s campaign inspired people to take ownership and feel like a part of history, to feel as if those of us who supported him had some control over our country’s future. Our destiny would no longer be dictated by a small group of shadowy, powerful men, which is the way it’s been for the last eight years, since before either of you was born. Daddy and I, your grandmas and grandpas, aunts and uncles, we were all inspired to knock on doors, make phone calls, and donate money and supplies to the campaign, and we all feel like we played a small part in moving history forward. This makes Obama’s victory even sweeter for us. We feel proud, not just of our country and our city, where Obama learned to be a civic leader, but of ourselves.
I am happy for you that you will be able to take some things for granted. You will see yourselves as citizens of the world, not only citizens of our country. And, you will have, I hope, many reasons to be proud of your country. Your native worldviews will be inclusive, not exclusive or divisive. As you grow, though, I hope that you will be vigilant and critical of the signs of divisiveness that has characterized our world in the past. I want you to learn about history so that you can avoid its mistakes. And I want you to always behave in a way that makes you proud of yourselves, because real pride can only come from inside of yourself, from doing what you know is right, not from what you see when you look in the mirror.
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