I cannot believe that this country of mine - the one where I was taught and dutifully studied the Constitution, this place where I was raised to believe that the (mythical, but still) separation between church and state existed and the notion, even if it were merely theoretical, that we were a people brought together to messily carve out a democracy - I cannot believe that a woman like Sarah Palin could seriously be offered as Second-in-Command of our country, let alone mayor of a tiny town in Alaska. Yes, that was one sentence. If it weren't just such a colossal embarrassment, like this country needs yet another black eye on the world stage, it would make any thinking person seethe with rage.
Sarah Palin is nothing short of terrifying and, really, a giant slap in the face of women everywhere. We should be outraged that this smirking fundamentalist is presented to us as a viable choice with her antediluvian belief system. (Not that I would vote in favor of a Republican candidate even without her, of course.) She is against the termination of a fetus, even in cases of rape or incest, and she supports teaching creationism (small 'c' as I just can't capitalize that silliness) in schools, presumably in in science class, alongside, well, actual science as though they are natural counterpoints. (Science belongs in science and creationism belongs in Mythology 101.) Our country would be one heart attack, one stroke, one unfortunate anvil falling on the head of the President away from her being Commander-in-Chief. Tell me, anyone with more than two brain cells duking it out, tell me that's not terrifying. I mean, the prospect of McCain along is scary enough on its own and there's not a lot that scares me after eight long years of the Bush administration. Sarah Palin would be such a fantastically bad choice for anyone who values freedom and liberty, she would make us say, "Remember that George W. Bush guy? Whatever happened to him? And remember how warm and engaging that Dick Cheney always was? What a sweetheart. Those were the days."
Sarah Palin referred in her RNC speech to her "servant's heart," which struck me like a thunderbolt: don't fundamentalists supposedly have "servant's hearts" and, further, wouldn't a terrorist also have one, willing to do anything as long as it could be twisted to serve one's God or a conviction about one's God? Terrorists are fundamentalists. It was then that I started imagining Sarah Palin as someone who would be stoning another woman to death if she lived in different circumstances, for daring to be independent and modern. Sarah Palin represents a giant step backwards and I am livid with John McCain, a man I could scarcely stomach to begin with, for offering her as a legitimate running partner. What a deeply misogynistic insult. I can only compare it to him offering a card-carrying, active member of the Ku Klux Klan (do they carry cards? That might imply a degree of literacy, so I'll presume not) as Vice President. Not only that, but this person would be African American. Can you imagine such a scenario? That is who Sarah Palin is to women who value our freedom and modernity: a member of the KKK. I'm sorry if that sounds dramatic and absurd, but it's true. And she's not such a friendly face to anyone else who's not a wealthy wingnut.
Right now I am trying very hard not to be scared of Sarah Palin because that is feeding into their power dynamic. I am focusing instead on bringing about positive change. Darn, though, late at night when I can't sleep, thoughts of her chill me to the bone. I wish that I could make a subliminal message recording that the whole nation could hear, simply with the word, "Obama, Obama, Obama..." repeated again and again. (Actually, given my first choice, it would be Kucinich's name I'd repeat, and next in line would be Nader, but after that, it would probably be Obama.) My fingers are crossed that sanity rules.
Shalom, everyone.
Obama, Obama, Obama...What? I didn't say anything.
Friday, September 5, 2008
Tuesday, September 2, 2008
Buster...
Buster is a fifty pound basset hound we adopted from a large animal shelter in Chicago twelve years ago, back when I worked there. He is nearly thirteen now as his birthday's on October 15. It's rare when an adopter knows her dog or cat's birthday because that information is usually not part of what is available. I happen to know Buster's birthday, though, because he was dropped off with his American Kennel Club papers as a six-month-old puppy. His name was Bilko at the time and he was, in shelter terminology, surrendered because he was not housebroken.
I happened to be at in the lobby as he was brought in because I was waiting for a group of students. I worked in the education department of the shelter. I was helping out with directing people until my class arrived and I saw a woman enter the building, with a distressed demeanor and an absolutely beautiful basset hound puppy. I asked her if she was leaving the dog and she answered with a sad but determined look on her face, "Unfortunately, yes." As I directed her where she needed to go, the puppy looked up and licked my knee before he was led off. I made a mental note, though none was necessary, to visit him later.
When I did go see the former Bilko a couple of hours later, I learned of his story. (That, to me, is one of the saddest aspects of the lives of these homeless dogs and cats: they each have a story and we tend to see them as one, largely indistinct mass without histories, like they simply appear at shelters, prior experiences wiped clean because we usually don't know them.) He, however, had an easy to trace trajectory through his birth papers and various receipts, back to a breeder where the woman who dropped him off - her name was on the receipt from the breeder and the form from the shelter - purchased him.
He was black, brown and white, his coat like velvet, perfect for nuzzling, and he was slim, even skinny, for a basset. His ears were long enough to have an inch or so to spare when they were measured against his long, proud nose, which I came to learn is something desirable in one's basset, at least according to the AKC guidebook to the breed that I read once. He was a beautiful boy, if one goes for that whole long-eared, sad-eyed hound aesthetic, which I certainly do, imprinted in my childhood by a beagle puppy named Duffy that my parents bought and then banished two weeks later. (A story for another day...)
John and I had another dog at the time, a perfect beagle-basset mix named Lenny, also adopted from the shelter. I wrote about Lenny extensively on my old website, Vegan Street. Lenny was not only extremely handsome (a big ol' beagle head on a modified basset body and a pair of the most dewy and soulful copper penny eyes you can imagine: people gasped at his exquisite orbs all the time) but he was just perfection on four legs to us. He fit into our lives so elegantly it was like John and I always had the outline of his particular little puzzle piece next to us, waiting to join the picture. Once we adopted Lenny, everything fit together. But this is about Buster, not Lenny.
We adopted Buster for mainly three reasons: 1. Because I was a little ashamed of working at a shelter and having one measly dog compared with some of my colleagues, who had like ten or eleven. 2. I thought that Lenny might like a playmate. (Ew, that sounded all Hefner-y. Now I'm imagining Buster in short shorts and a poofy blonde wig.) 3. Buster was very lovable. Oh, there is a forth reason, too: because I can make quite a pest of myself when I get my mind set on things, like the three compelling reasons above.
When we introduced Buster and Lenny at the shelter, they didn't maul one another so we considered that a success. Buster bounded after Lenny, skittering across the cement floor, ears flopping, as he brayed like a sea lion. Lenny, for his part, ran in dizzyingly tight circles that Buster's clumsy puppy body couldn't compete with, teasing him with his easy agility. This first meeting set the tone for their relationship: Buster would forever be trying to impress his big brother, and Lenny, dignified and proud, would barely deign to notice. Finally, fresh out of creative solutions, Buster would simply bark with all his might, a loud baritone of a woof, one after the next until he was acknowledged. That bark alone chased a burglar out of our home in the middle of the night two years ago. Well, not the bark alone, I guess: the gnashing teeth at his leg might have also been persuasive.
So Buster.
Our lives together have been complicated a little, not always an easy fit like it was with Lenny, who passed away (I can't bare to say the 'd' word in reference to him) in 2002. Buster pooped and peed all over the gorgeous parquet floors of our apartment in Humboldt Park, pretty much from the day we adopted him until the day we moved out eight or so years later. In our home, he appears to be largely able to control his bladder, hallelujah, but that was one exceptionally long housebreaking period. (John has a funny story about when he was on the phone with a client and Buster walked into his office and started peeing. John didn't say anything because he was in professional mode and his client was talking, and then Buster started pooping. Buster stared at John, clearly agitated but unable to express himself, the whole time.) Buster also had this little flirtation with caprophagia, a.k.a, poop eating, which is every bit as appetizing as it sounds. This is all one thing, kind of like taking care of an infant for a loooong time, but it is the aggression that makes our relationship an uneasy one at times.
The first time Buster growled at me should have been a harbinger of things to come. He had only come home with us from the shelter that day when I took a piece of tin foil away from him and got a growl. I thought that it was just Buster being a puppy, play fighting, but in the coming weeks and months I learned that that was just the way he was wired. He could be unbelievably sweet and affectionate, but there was this other side that would lash out when we would least expect it. After many calls to behaviorists, pretty much every last one concluding that we should euthanize Buster, we simply adapted. No hands above the head, no challenging, if he finds a chicken bone on the street, it's his. One night he was lying on our bed with me and I petted him. Something, I don't know what, perhaps some long ago harsh hand, awakened in him a ferocious response and he knocked me over, biting my face. I screamed for John with blood gushing out of my mouth. John used butterfly bandages and masterfully closed up my wound as I tried not to sob and screw it all up. We should have gone to the hospital but I was afraid of Buster being taken from us. A small scar remains on my upper lip. (Buster also bit a famous - well, famous to us - vegan cookbook author who had the audacity to pet him while she stayed at our home. Stitches and a hotel room were promptly acquired.)
In some ways, Buster is more complicated than Lenny. Life was always pretty enjoyable to Lenny, whereas Buster was always haunted by something. I very much misunderstood him as a puppy, thinking that he was goofy and untroubled. If I had been a more skilled behaviorist, I would have seen his challenges more clearheadedly, seen that haunted look (haunted by what? A few months with a bad family? A hard time getting a nipple as a nursling?) and known that there was a depth of experience there.
I love Buster but it's complicated between us sometimes. I cannot allow myself to be vulnerable to him the way I was when I was bit in the face, so I pet him very cautiously. To love Buster these days is to respect his space and love him from afar. Just as with humans, dogs have their own preferences, their own temperaments. Our son knows that Buster is not a "petting type" dog, has known that since he was old enough to toddle after him. I absolutely think that if Buster wants more of a hands-off approach to affection, that is his prerogative. I think that it's important that our son know that companion animals do not exist for whatever our whims may be; they exist for their own reasons, as Alice Walker's famous quote goes, and if Buster wants his existence to be a certain way, so long as it does not hurt another, that is his right.
Buster appears to have suffered a stroke a couple of days back. He is wobbly on his feet, his head is leaning, he is sleeping a lot and not eating. The fact that he allowed John to pick him up without a bite is telling. The vet believes that if it was a stroke, he should be able to recover fairly well. It could also be a tumor, though, which makes a less favorable prognosis. It is strange to be hoping for a stroke, but that's what we are doing.
He is staked out in the steps, allowing us to pass with the occasional snapping at the cat. He hasn't eaten in two days, but he is drinking and does not appear to be suffering. Buster, his velvet tri-colored coat now much more dull, fully gray in the muzzle, seems to be deciding if he should stay or go. In the meantime, we send him our love, which is complicated but still, somehow, unconditional.
I hope that he knows how much we love him. He does know that life can be complicated, even for a beautiful basset puppy.
Prayers and positive visualizations for Buster, please.
Shalom, everyone.
I happened to be at in the lobby as he was brought in because I was waiting for a group of students. I worked in the education department of the shelter. I was helping out with directing people until my class arrived and I saw a woman enter the building, with a distressed demeanor and an absolutely beautiful basset hound puppy. I asked her if she was leaving the dog and she answered with a sad but determined look on her face, "Unfortunately, yes." As I directed her where she needed to go, the puppy looked up and licked my knee before he was led off. I made a mental note, though none was necessary, to visit him later.
When I did go see the former Bilko a couple of hours later, I learned of his story. (That, to me, is one of the saddest aspects of the lives of these homeless dogs and cats: they each have a story and we tend to see them as one, largely indistinct mass without histories, like they simply appear at shelters, prior experiences wiped clean because we usually don't know them.) He, however, had an easy to trace trajectory through his birth papers and various receipts, back to a breeder where the woman who dropped him off - her name was on the receipt from the breeder and the form from the shelter - purchased him.
He was black, brown and white, his coat like velvet, perfect for nuzzling, and he was slim, even skinny, for a basset. His ears were long enough to have an inch or so to spare when they were measured against his long, proud nose, which I came to learn is something desirable in one's basset, at least according to the AKC guidebook to the breed that I read once. He was a beautiful boy, if one goes for that whole long-eared, sad-eyed hound aesthetic, which I certainly do, imprinted in my childhood by a beagle puppy named Duffy that my parents bought and then banished two weeks later. (A story for another day...)
John and I had another dog at the time, a perfect beagle-basset mix named Lenny, also adopted from the shelter. I wrote about Lenny extensively on my old website, Vegan Street. Lenny was not only extremely handsome (a big ol' beagle head on a modified basset body and a pair of the most dewy and soulful copper penny eyes you can imagine: people gasped at his exquisite orbs all the time) but he was just perfection on four legs to us. He fit into our lives so elegantly it was like John and I always had the outline of his particular little puzzle piece next to us, waiting to join the picture. Once we adopted Lenny, everything fit together. But this is about Buster, not Lenny.
We adopted Buster for mainly three reasons: 1. Because I was a little ashamed of working at a shelter and having one measly dog compared with some of my colleagues, who had like ten or eleven. 2. I thought that Lenny might like a playmate. (Ew, that sounded all Hefner-y. Now I'm imagining Buster in short shorts and a poofy blonde wig.) 3. Buster was very lovable. Oh, there is a forth reason, too: because I can make quite a pest of myself when I get my mind set on things, like the three compelling reasons above.
When we introduced Buster and Lenny at the shelter, they didn't maul one another so we considered that a success. Buster bounded after Lenny, skittering across the cement floor, ears flopping, as he brayed like a sea lion. Lenny, for his part, ran in dizzyingly tight circles that Buster's clumsy puppy body couldn't compete with, teasing him with his easy agility. This first meeting set the tone for their relationship: Buster would forever be trying to impress his big brother, and Lenny, dignified and proud, would barely deign to notice. Finally, fresh out of creative solutions, Buster would simply bark with all his might, a loud baritone of a woof, one after the next until he was acknowledged. That bark alone chased a burglar out of our home in the middle of the night two years ago. Well, not the bark alone, I guess: the gnashing teeth at his leg might have also been persuasive.
So Buster.
Our lives together have been complicated a little, not always an easy fit like it was with Lenny, who passed away (I can't bare to say the 'd' word in reference to him) in 2002. Buster pooped and peed all over the gorgeous parquet floors of our apartment in Humboldt Park, pretty much from the day we adopted him until the day we moved out eight or so years later. In our home, he appears to be largely able to control his bladder, hallelujah, but that was one exceptionally long housebreaking period. (John has a funny story about when he was on the phone with a client and Buster walked into his office and started peeing. John didn't say anything because he was in professional mode and his client was talking, and then Buster started pooping. Buster stared at John, clearly agitated but unable to express himself, the whole time.) Buster also had this little flirtation with caprophagia, a.k.a, poop eating, which is every bit as appetizing as it sounds. This is all one thing, kind of like taking care of an infant for a loooong time, but it is the aggression that makes our relationship an uneasy one at times.
The first time Buster growled at me should have been a harbinger of things to come. He had only come home with us from the shelter that day when I took a piece of tin foil away from him and got a growl. I thought that it was just Buster being a puppy, play fighting, but in the coming weeks and months I learned that that was just the way he was wired. He could be unbelievably sweet and affectionate, but there was this other side that would lash out when we would least expect it. After many calls to behaviorists, pretty much every last one concluding that we should euthanize Buster, we simply adapted. No hands above the head, no challenging, if he finds a chicken bone on the street, it's his. One night he was lying on our bed with me and I petted him. Something, I don't know what, perhaps some long ago harsh hand, awakened in him a ferocious response and he knocked me over, biting my face. I screamed for John with blood gushing out of my mouth. John used butterfly bandages and masterfully closed up my wound as I tried not to sob and screw it all up. We should have gone to the hospital but I was afraid of Buster being taken from us. A small scar remains on my upper lip. (Buster also bit a famous - well, famous to us - vegan cookbook author who had the audacity to pet him while she stayed at our home. Stitches and a hotel room were promptly acquired.)
In some ways, Buster is more complicated than Lenny. Life was always pretty enjoyable to Lenny, whereas Buster was always haunted by something. I very much misunderstood him as a puppy, thinking that he was goofy and untroubled. If I had been a more skilled behaviorist, I would have seen his challenges more clearheadedly, seen that haunted look (haunted by what? A few months with a bad family? A hard time getting a nipple as a nursling?) and known that there was a depth of experience there.
I love Buster but it's complicated between us sometimes. I cannot allow myself to be vulnerable to him the way I was when I was bit in the face, so I pet him very cautiously. To love Buster these days is to respect his space and love him from afar. Just as with humans, dogs have their own preferences, their own temperaments. Our son knows that Buster is not a "petting type" dog, has known that since he was old enough to toddle after him. I absolutely think that if Buster wants more of a hands-off approach to affection, that is his prerogative. I think that it's important that our son know that companion animals do not exist for whatever our whims may be; they exist for their own reasons, as Alice Walker's famous quote goes, and if Buster wants his existence to be a certain way, so long as it does not hurt another, that is his right.
Buster appears to have suffered a stroke a couple of days back. He is wobbly on his feet, his head is leaning, he is sleeping a lot and not eating. The fact that he allowed John to pick him up without a bite is telling. The vet believes that if it was a stroke, he should be able to recover fairly well. It could also be a tumor, though, which makes a less favorable prognosis. It is strange to be hoping for a stroke, but that's what we are doing.
He is staked out in the steps, allowing us to pass with the occasional snapping at the cat. He hasn't eaten in two days, but he is drinking and does not appear to be suffering. Buster, his velvet tri-colored coat now much more dull, fully gray in the muzzle, seems to be deciding if he should stay or go. In the meantime, we send him our love, which is complicated but still, somehow, unconditional.
I hope that he knows how much we love him. He does know that life can be complicated, even for a beautiful basset puppy.
Prayers and positive visualizations for Buster, please.
Shalom, everyone.
Friday, August 29, 2008
Ai ai ai...
The sort of day I'm having: I took my son for his first eye exam (necessary for kindergarten) and I waited a month to get in to see this recommended ophthalmologist. We had a 9:15 appointment and I was even naive enough to think that we might have time for some playground shenanigans before school started at noon. Oh, sweet, optimistic me.
We were there until noon, nearly three hours, we were late for kindergarten, though we could have gone but the deciding factor was that my son's pupils were dilated like Jim Morrison's on a bender due to approximately four different eye drops that I was not anticipating so I was unable to prepare him. Thus, from hour two until hour three, there was a lot of crying and general anxiety about his newly compromised vision.
The good news? My son has perfect, 20/20 vision! The bad news? He needs glasses anyway! How, what, come again, huh? He has a condition called accommodative esotropia, which is a latent (undetectable without sensitive equipment) inward crossing of the eye, which causes double vision. After an eternity of my poor boy reading numbers and letters off the screen (did a perfect job, I might add), having the lights turned off, his doctor peering into his cranium via his eye using a miner light contraption, covering his eyes one at a time with a plastic strip, having his six-year-old self sit still as she determined his prescription AND having her mutter incomprehensibly to no one in particular but then speak again in exactly the same mumbling tone (seriously, it was like, "...mgrapmmm...hmmm...mmmm...good...mmmph...") and expect me to be able to hear her, I was pretty much ready to karate chop strangers. Not to mention him missing kindergarten on our first week of school when I have writing to do.
What with having a hungry, bleary-eyed Lizard King as a son, we decided to go home and make the German Apple Cake from The Joy of Vegan Baking to console ourselves.
Shalom, everyone/
We were there until noon, nearly three hours, we were late for kindergarten, though we could have gone but the deciding factor was that my son's pupils were dilated like Jim Morrison's on a bender due to approximately four different eye drops that I was not anticipating so I was unable to prepare him. Thus, from hour two until hour three, there was a lot of crying and general anxiety about his newly compromised vision.
The good news? My son has perfect, 20/20 vision! The bad news? He needs glasses anyway! How, what, come again, huh? He has a condition called accommodative esotropia, which is a latent (undetectable without sensitive equipment) inward crossing of the eye, which causes double vision. After an eternity of my poor boy reading numbers and letters off the screen (did a perfect job, I might add), having the lights turned off, his doctor peering into his cranium via his eye using a miner light contraption, covering his eyes one at a time with a plastic strip, having his six-year-old self sit still as she determined his prescription AND having her mutter incomprehensibly to no one in particular but then speak again in exactly the same mumbling tone (seriously, it was like, "...mgrapmmm...hmmm...mmmm...good...mmmph...") and expect me to be able to hear her, I was pretty much ready to karate chop strangers. Not to mention him missing kindergarten on our first week of school when I have writing to do.
What with having a hungry, bleary-eyed Lizard King as a son, we decided to go home and make the German Apple Cake from The Joy of Vegan Baking to console ourselves.
Shalom, everyone/
Obama's speech...
I didn't watch Barack Obama's entire speech at the DNC last night, but what I saw gave me some hope.
Admittedly, I am pretty disgusted by the Democratic party as a whole and I hold them as accountable as the Bush administration for our nation's spiraling problems: the war in Iraq, the inequality of our public education system, the entrenched corporate influence everywhere. They have failed to be a voice of the people, failed quite astonishingly at this. When I see Dennis Kucinich speak, as I did addressing the DNC a few days ago, I think to myself, "Why is this man treated like he's such a joke?" The Democratic establishment, they are the joke, but it's one of those not-funny, makes-your-stomach-hurt-to-think-of kind of jokes. He said something very wise in his speech: he said that he is not talking about a shift from right to left, he is talking about a shift from down to up. This may not seem revolutionary at face value, but it is. He is talking about disregarding that old dial, the one that trapped us into believing in the false duality of the Republicans versus the Democrats, and create a new one, one reflecting deep change, true progress. Again, I have to ask, why is this man treated as such a joke?
Anyway, back to Obama. I cannot imagine that McCain and his tired old cronies can generate even a small percentage of the passion that Obama did in that Denver stadium, not even if they had Merlin whipping up a tempest in his cauldron. The debates between them, I think and hope, will look like the Kennedy/Nixon match up and the Chicago senator will blow that old war monger out of the water. He is the old guard, despite his largely mythic and construed maverick persona, and the people are tired of it. McCain is more of the same, and we cannot abide any more of the same. Obama, while he still gives unfortunate lipservice to the importance of nuclear development and various other Eisenhower-era values, does represent a change in the guard here, not necessarily from down to up, but at least from down to middle. That's something! And I can only hope that the mixed race child of a single mother would be personally aware of how working people are living today. I can only hope that he's not so shielded that he is out of touch with this.
So I am guardedly hopeful. Barack and Michelle Obama: they have exactly the sort of image - I'm sorry if that sounds superficial, but it's absolutely the right word - we need on the world stage representing our country as soon as possible. I am not swept up in Obamamania, but after these last eight years of an utterly atrocious administration that makes decisions befitting such an outfit of robber barons and crooks, I am hopeful that something different can occur with him. And we desperately need something different.
Shalom, everyone.
Admittedly, I am pretty disgusted by the Democratic party as a whole and I hold them as accountable as the Bush administration for our nation's spiraling problems: the war in Iraq, the inequality of our public education system, the entrenched corporate influence everywhere. They have failed to be a voice of the people, failed quite astonishingly at this. When I see Dennis Kucinich speak, as I did addressing the DNC a few days ago, I think to myself, "Why is this man treated like he's such a joke?" The Democratic establishment, they are the joke, but it's one of those not-funny, makes-your-stomach-hurt-to-think-of kind of jokes. He said something very wise in his speech: he said that he is not talking about a shift from right to left, he is talking about a shift from down to up. This may not seem revolutionary at face value, but it is. He is talking about disregarding that old dial, the one that trapped us into believing in the false duality of the Republicans versus the Democrats, and create a new one, one reflecting deep change, true progress. Again, I have to ask, why is this man treated as such a joke?
Anyway, back to Obama. I cannot imagine that McCain and his tired old cronies can generate even a small percentage of the passion that Obama did in that Denver stadium, not even if they had Merlin whipping up a tempest in his cauldron. The debates between them, I think and hope, will look like the Kennedy/Nixon match up and the Chicago senator will blow that old war monger out of the water. He is the old guard, despite his largely mythic and construed maverick persona, and the people are tired of it. McCain is more of the same, and we cannot abide any more of the same. Obama, while he still gives unfortunate lipservice to the importance of nuclear development and various other Eisenhower-era values, does represent a change in the guard here, not necessarily from down to up, but at least from down to middle. That's something! And I can only hope that the mixed race child of a single mother would be personally aware of how working people are living today. I can only hope that he's not so shielded that he is out of touch with this.
So I am guardedly hopeful. Barack and Michelle Obama: they have exactly the sort of image - I'm sorry if that sounds superficial, but it's absolutely the right word - we need on the world stage representing our country as soon as possible. I am not swept up in Obamamania, but after these last eight years of an utterly atrocious administration that makes decisions befitting such an outfit of robber barons and crooks, I am hopeful that something different can occur with him. And we desperately need something different.
Shalom, everyone.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Is there an echo in here?...
Remember how Hillary Clinton was actively loathed and depicted by the Limbaugh's of the world as a calculating, power hungry she-devil for having the audacity to be a woman of accomplishment and confidence way back when her husband was running for president the first time? I am not and have never been much of a Clinton fan but much of what was leveled at her has always smacked of plain, old fashioned, garden variety misogyny. (There is plenty to criticize about Senator Clinton that is not rooted in the fact of her being a female, especially her continued support of overseas aggression* and that she has not accomplished much in terms of a progressive voting record since she became a senator. She is not alone in this: the Democratic politican as a spineless, sniveling whiner is the absolute gold standard with the exception of a few decent but relatively powerless folks like Kucinich. Oh, Nancy Pelosi, you have failed us.)
Anyway, I did not see Michelle Obama's speech the other night, but I was telling John a while back when people started first grumbling about her - she's too harsh! And this Harvard-educated lawyer and her husband hate "whitey!" (can't they do any better than this?) - that if we thought people were threatened by Hillary, wait until this educated and accomplished woman of color is masticated by U.S. talk radio. I wonder what is going to be her symbolic act of penance to mainstream America for her confidence and achievement. Will she have to bake cookies like Hillary? (GAH!!) Will she have to make a declaration on public record of all of her shortcomings and failures in chronological order? Will she have to demonstrate her two left feet on Dancing With The Stars? Only time will tell.
Shalom, everyone.
*I wonder if there is a word that's the female equivalent of "emasculation" (to strip a man of his masculinity and thus his power as a male, with the implication that he has become a pansy, a.k.a., a woman)? Efemization? Efemalezation? I need a equivalent word to describe the process of stripping a woman of her vital female power and turning her into an honorary male. I'm pretty sure this is what happened to Hillary Clinton somewhere along the road.
Anyway, I did not see Michelle Obama's speech the other night, but I was telling John a while back when people started first grumbling about her - she's too harsh! And this Harvard-educated lawyer and her husband hate "whitey!" (can't they do any better than this?) - that if we thought people were threatened by Hillary, wait until this educated and accomplished woman of color is masticated by U.S. talk radio. I wonder what is going to be her symbolic act of penance to mainstream America for her confidence and achievement. Will she have to bake cookies like Hillary? (GAH!!) Will she have to make a declaration on public record of all of her shortcomings and failures in chronological order? Will she have to demonstrate her two left feet on Dancing With The Stars? Only time will tell.
Shalom, everyone.
*I wonder if there is a word that's the female equivalent of "emasculation" (to strip a man of his masculinity and thus his power as a male, with the implication that he has become a pansy, a.k.a., a woman)? Efemization? Efemalezation? I need a equivalent word to describe the process of stripping a woman of her vital female power and turning her into an honorary male. I'm pretty sure this is what happened to Hillary Clinton somewhere along the road.
Saturday, August 23, 2008
Bittersweetness is another face of love...
There is an orange-y/pink sherbet sunset (or maybe it is vegan and a sorbet sunset), bright burnished gold at the bottom, and my son is asleep in our spare bedroom. It is very early for my little night owl to be slumbering. This is late August, a very bittersweet time many of us, but the locusts are still buzzing away, unaware (probably? I think?) of the cruel winter that seems inconceivable, almost laughable, on a luxurious night like this one. My husband is working on his Stuff, and as I wrote this paragraph, the deep indigo of the sky is pushing down on my gauzy band of sunset, squeezing it out. Sunsets, like August, remind me of the fleeting nature of pleasure, of time. I want to grasp life's beauty (how's that for a little Heartfelt Themes in Poetry 101, but it's true) and I have difficulty loosening my grip sometimes. I would be one of those Buddhist monks begging to design my sand mandala in concrete. I'm not very Zen most times, I'm afraid.
There is nothing like having a child, perhaps, that teaches us how very ephemeral life is which can be both reassuring and painful. Love or enjoyment mixed with sadness is the nature of bittersweetness, usually wrapped together with a note of longing for what is no longer. Judaism, the religious tradition in which I was raised, has bittersweetness seemingly at it's very core: an appreciation for what is (or recently was) and a knowledge that it will soon be no longer (or has past). I think it's because of the Jew in me - or, at least, that's what I blame - that I have such a propensity toward tears and emotionality. (I also love to laugh, of course, and any of my friends would confirm that I am an absolute goofball, but this is part of the Jewish Thing, too: laugh now, because tears are right around the corner.) My mom is the same way with crying. I remember as a child I was leaving a medical building for my annual checkup with my mom and there was a woman on the elevator with us who was quietly weeping to herself. It seemed clear that she got some bad news at one of the doctor's offices. As we were going down the floors, my mom turned to her and said, "Can I help you with something?" The woman shook her head, saying nothing, and hurried off the elevator. My mom was already crying in solidarity.
I'd like to say here that qualities of bittersweetness can very poetic and can lend to artistic, soulful expression. It is also very easy to abuse and make saccharine. I'm sorry to anyone if I'm crossing that line.
Continuing on the theme of sunsets being extinguished and August tick-tocking past, my son has finished the preschool he has been at since he was three and is going to be entering kindergarten in a few days. This is (was? Again, the bittersweet) such a lovely place. It is run out of the home of a Korean-born, Jewish-converted woman who has such a magical touch with the children. I'll call her Ms. K. You know that expression "an iron fist in a velvet glove"? That's Ms. K, though the word fist is far too violent sounding. The meaning, though, is that she is that perfect combination of strength and softness. She does not allow the children misbehave, and she has very subtle but effective ways of handling misbehavior, but if a child is misbehaving because of something rooted in the emotions, she is unerringly compassionate, loving and gentle. She has three other teachers - three life-affirming, committed and lovely young women - who work at her sweet little home school. They each have a unique approach and particular gifts, but they are all united in the core values of Ms. K's preschool: to help children feel cherished, important and respected, giving them the very best start as they make their way through the world.
Ms. K has a background in painting, so the school's walls have some beautiful paintings throughout. There are also sweet drawings and seed/bean works on the walls made by the children. Every day before snack time, the children rest and reflect while Ms. K plays the piano; after a few minutes, she calls them each up one at a time to stretch and they take a seat at their respective tables for a simple meal, usually crispy bread and fresh fruit. The school is on the second floor of Ms. K's home, and though creativity is encouraged, it is never, ever chaotic. All the scarves and wooden blocks and tea cups are put away in their appropriate containers by the children when play time is over. In order to foster a sense of peace, there must be order. Once you have order, and thus peace, then creativity can flourish. (The myth or stereotype of the artist thriving in chaos may be very entrenched but I don't find it particularly honest. When my life is disorderly, I can't focus on creating because I'm too busy dealing with the chaos. When my life has an overriding order to it, though, I can thrive much more as a creative person.)
Anyway, Ms. K's school has been a very big part of our lives for three years. I have learned so much from her and her school. Her approach - always the perfect, precise measurement of what is needed in any given situation - is something I find both admirable and deeply humbling. Being a parent will expose your very nexus of frailties sometimes. I can be short-tempered, impatient, demanding and harsh in ways that I never knew possible. (Of course, there is that infinite wellspring of love to soften the blow.) Observing Ms. K with the children (always listening, always fair, always encouraging) has helped to give me something to aspire to as a mother. The way she brightens a room with her warm smile has made me more aware of the simple gift we give with the corners of the mouth lifted upward. The way that she always greets the children as they are arriving as though she hadn't seen them in weeks - five days a week she does this - and they are very special to her, well, that is the mark of a very remarkable person, someone who is so enriched by giving. The way she has told me so many times in my more weak and worried moments that my son - different from the others because of his very essence, which I know to be a good thing ultimately - is a unique individual who is a gift to be treasured and nurtured. I will try to internalize this because I know it to be true, too.
Friday was my son's last day at school, which was technically camp. He is officially kindergarten bound. I knew that I would be sad and I certainly cried, especially when I was picking him up. He looked up at me, his eyes worried, and asked why I was doing that, why I was crying and I told him that I would miss his school. I hate crying in front of my son but I couldn't avoid it. If I could have, I would have told him that my tears were bittersweet: gratitude toward Ms. K and her school, and sadness about it ending. (There is also bittersweetness about my little boy growing up and that's related but distinct.) The sadness, though, is brightened immeasurably by the gratitude. I feel so fortunate to have shared this time of my life with such a special person, and I am so deeply glad that my son got this exquisite and absolutely uncommon start in life.
Life is fleeting. Make the most of it while it is happening.
Shalom, everyone.
There is nothing like having a child, perhaps, that teaches us how very ephemeral life is which can be both reassuring and painful. Love or enjoyment mixed with sadness is the nature of bittersweetness, usually wrapped together with a note of longing for what is no longer. Judaism, the religious tradition in which I was raised, has bittersweetness seemingly at it's very core: an appreciation for what is (or recently was) and a knowledge that it will soon be no longer (or has past). I think it's because of the Jew in me - or, at least, that's what I blame - that I have such a propensity toward tears and emotionality. (I also love to laugh, of course, and any of my friends would confirm that I am an absolute goofball, but this is part of the Jewish Thing, too: laugh now, because tears are right around the corner.) My mom is the same way with crying. I remember as a child I was leaving a medical building for my annual checkup with my mom and there was a woman on the elevator with us who was quietly weeping to herself. It seemed clear that she got some bad news at one of the doctor's offices. As we were going down the floors, my mom turned to her and said, "Can I help you with something?" The woman shook her head, saying nothing, and hurried off the elevator. My mom was already crying in solidarity.
I'd like to say here that qualities of bittersweetness can very poetic and can lend to artistic, soulful expression. It is also very easy to abuse and make saccharine. I'm sorry to anyone if I'm crossing that line.
Continuing on the theme of sunsets being extinguished and August tick-tocking past, my son has finished the preschool he has been at since he was three and is going to be entering kindergarten in a few days. This is (was? Again, the bittersweet) such a lovely place. It is run out of the home of a Korean-born, Jewish-converted woman who has such a magical touch with the children. I'll call her Ms. K. You know that expression "an iron fist in a velvet glove"? That's Ms. K, though the word fist is far too violent sounding. The meaning, though, is that she is that perfect combination of strength and softness. She does not allow the children misbehave, and she has very subtle but effective ways of handling misbehavior, but if a child is misbehaving because of something rooted in the emotions, she is unerringly compassionate, loving and gentle. She has three other teachers - three life-affirming, committed and lovely young women - who work at her sweet little home school. They each have a unique approach and particular gifts, but they are all united in the core values of Ms. K's preschool: to help children feel cherished, important and respected, giving them the very best start as they make their way through the world.
Ms. K has a background in painting, so the school's walls have some beautiful paintings throughout. There are also sweet drawings and seed/bean works on the walls made by the children. Every day before snack time, the children rest and reflect while Ms. K plays the piano; after a few minutes, she calls them each up one at a time to stretch and they take a seat at their respective tables for a simple meal, usually crispy bread and fresh fruit. The school is on the second floor of Ms. K's home, and though creativity is encouraged, it is never, ever chaotic. All the scarves and wooden blocks and tea cups are put away in their appropriate containers by the children when play time is over. In order to foster a sense of peace, there must be order. Once you have order, and thus peace, then creativity can flourish. (The myth or stereotype of the artist thriving in chaos may be very entrenched but I don't find it particularly honest. When my life is disorderly, I can't focus on creating because I'm too busy dealing with the chaos. When my life has an overriding order to it, though, I can thrive much more as a creative person.)
Anyway, Ms. K's school has been a very big part of our lives for three years. I have learned so much from her and her school. Her approach - always the perfect, precise measurement of what is needed in any given situation - is something I find both admirable and deeply humbling. Being a parent will expose your very nexus of frailties sometimes. I can be short-tempered, impatient, demanding and harsh in ways that I never knew possible. (Of course, there is that infinite wellspring of love to soften the blow.) Observing Ms. K with the children (always listening, always fair, always encouraging) has helped to give me something to aspire to as a mother. The way she brightens a room with her warm smile has made me more aware of the simple gift we give with the corners of the mouth lifted upward. The way that she always greets the children as they are arriving as though she hadn't seen them in weeks - five days a week she does this - and they are very special to her, well, that is the mark of a very remarkable person, someone who is so enriched by giving. The way she has told me so many times in my more weak and worried moments that my son - different from the others because of his very essence, which I know to be a good thing ultimately - is a unique individual who is a gift to be treasured and nurtured. I will try to internalize this because I know it to be true, too.
Friday was my son's last day at school, which was technically camp. He is officially kindergarten bound. I knew that I would be sad and I certainly cried, especially when I was picking him up. He looked up at me, his eyes worried, and asked why I was doing that, why I was crying and I told him that I would miss his school. I hate crying in front of my son but I couldn't avoid it. If I could have, I would have told him that my tears were bittersweet: gratitude toward Ms. K and her school, and sadness about it ending. (There is also bittersweetness about my little boy growing up and that's related but distinct.) The sadness, though, is brightened immeasurably by the gratitude. I feel so fortunate to have shared this time of my life with such a special person, and I am so deeply glad that my son got this exquisite and absolutely uncommon start in life.
Life is fleeting. Make the most of it while it is happening.
Shalom, everyone.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Breaded Tofu Nuggets of Forgiveness (A Recipe)...
You have had a very challenging day with your six-year-old. You fantasize about running away from home; contemplate belatedly putting him up for adoption and how you will break this news to him ("This just isn't working out..."). This boy of yours - with eyes like your eyes, you have heard, your first and only born - giggles with sadistic glee each time he manages to get under your skin today, which is often but not without skill on his part, and you start to see a flicker of the teenager him, with his cool indifference to your pain.
Still, he is six and he does not like to see his mother crying, hopelessly tangled in a knot of
merging highways from four directions in the distant suburbs, a bitter reminder to her that the suburbs are the Devil's Lair, that the architects of these cement torture chambers deserve to traverse them in construction zones for eternity. It is not lost on either of them that their Bermuda Triangulation was precipitated by him screeching (yet again, she grinds her teeth) like an orangutan until she misses her exit. They are an hour late to meet friends, but thankfully they are forgiving friends. The mother reverts back to how she dealt with anger in her childhood: a seething, hissing figure, more radiator than person, glowering at her son as he happily skips with his friend and moves on.
He has not forgotten, though. He is tentative around her, certainly aware of their power imbalance. Finally back home, she has cooled off and he is seeking companionship from her after the deep freeze of their day together. He is missing his friend, his mother. She makes an overture: what should they make for dinner? "Something that I like to sneak on," he says, a hopeful sound in his voice. She knows that he likes to sneak on tofu and vegan cheese. After some negotiation and an only mildly awful trip to the grocery store, they settle on pasta with roasted vegetables and the breaded tofu nuggets that will broker the forgiveness deal between them.
He pours the marinade and swishes it over the tofu; he dips the cubes in the breading and gingerly places the coated pieces on a plate. She thanks him, perhaps too enthusiastically, but she is grateful for the opportunity. She sneaks glances at his little hands, still pudgy from toddlerhood but with fingers that are trying to be nimble and deft. He is proud of his work and trying and she loves him at moments like these more than she can ever express.
Breaded Tofu Nuggets of Forgiveness
1 pound firm tofu, drained and cubed
Marinade
1/2 cup apple cider vinegar
3/4 cup tamari
1/4 cup water
1 tablespoon sesame oil
1-inch piece of ginger, minced
2 cloves garlic, minced
Place the tofu in a 9X9 pan and pour the marinade over it. Let it marinate for at least twenty minutes. Remove cubes and keep the marinade for future use.
Crispy Coating
1 cup nutritional yeast (the big flakes, not the powder, for goodness sake)
1/3 cup breadcrumbs (gluten-free rice style worked well here)
1/4 cup panko (Japanese breadcrumbs found at natural foods store)
1/2 tablespoon garlic powder
2 teaspoons dried basil
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
Mix this together in a big bowl. Roll the tofu cubes around in this and place on a plate.
Heat two tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat in a large skillet. Cook the nuggets in this, taking care to not crowd them, for five minutes, turning them to brown all over. Do this as many times as you need to until all the tofu is done. You may need to re-oil the pan.
Enjoy and forgive.
Still, he is six and he does not like to see his mother crying, hopelessly tangled in a knot of
merging highways from four directions in the distant suburbs, a bitter reminder to her that the suburbs are the Devil's Lair, that the architects of these cement torture chambers deserve to traverse them in construction zones for eternity. It is not lost on either of them that their Bermuda Triangulation was precipitated by him screeching (yet again, she grinds her teeth) like an orangutan until she misses her exit. They are an hour late to meet friends, but thankfully they are forgiving friends. The mother reverts back to how she dealt with anger in her childhood: a seething, hissing figure, more radiator than person, glowering at her son as he happily skips with his friend and moves on.
He has not forgotten, though. He is tentative around her, certainly aware of their power imbalance. Finally back home, she has cooled off and he is seeking companionship from her after the deep freeze of their day together. He is missing his friend, his mother. She makes an overture: what should they make for dinner? "Something that I like to sneak on," he says, a hopeful sound in his voice. She knows that he likes to sneak on tofu and vegan cheese. After some negotiation and an only mildly awful trip to the grocery store, they settle on pasta with roasted vegetables and the breaded tofu nuggets that will broker the forgiveness deal between them.
He pours the marinade and swishes it over the tofu; he dips the cubes in the breading and gingerly places the coated pieces on a plate. She thanks him, perhaps too enthusiastically, but she is grateful for the opportunity. She sneaks glances at his little hands, still pudgy from toddlerhood but with fingers that are trying to be nimble and deft. He is proud of his work and trying and she loves him at moments like these more than she can ever express.
Breaded Tofu Nuggets of Forgiveness
1 pound firm tofu, drained and cubed
Marinade
1/2 cup apple cider vinegar
3/4 cup tamari
1/4 cup water
1 tablespoon sesame oil
1-inch piece of ginger, minced
2 cloves garlic, minced
Place the tofu in a 9X9 pan and pour the marinade over it. Let it marinate for at least twenty minutes. Remove cubes and keep the marinade for future use.
Crispy Coating
1 cup nutritional yeast (the big flakes, not the powder, for goodness sake)
1/3 cup breadcrumbs (gluten-free rice style worked well here)
1/4 cup panko (Japanese breadcrumbs found at natural foods store)
1/2 tablespoon garlic powder
2 teaspoons dried basil
1/4 teaspoon black pepper
Mix this together in a big bowl. Roll the tofu cubes around in this and place on a plate.
Heat two tablespoons of olive oil over medium heat in a large skillet. Cook the nuggets in this, taking care to not crowd them, for five minutes, turning them to brown all over. Do this as many times as you need to until all the tofu is done. You may need to re-oil the pan.
Enjoy and forgive.
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