"Not good news. The cancer has spread to about 8 areas and very fast. So I will go home tomorrow and wait it out!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" Jan. 12, 2010 @ 2:53PM Central Time
There are those instant text messages that one should never read off the cuff. THIS would be one of those. Text seems to lack the necessary mode of emotional import inherent in a phone call or even in a handwritten letter. While emoticons and generous use of punctuation, LOL's, LMAO's, and the entire parade of abbreviated sayings are intended to ensure the reader correctly interprets the tone of the message, they are all decidedly one-dimensional. Text messages lack the depth of description one might read in a newspaper story or magazine article. They are, by their very nature -- text messages -- brief, to the point, an instant communication without too much thought behind it.
Receiving that text, actually more like discovering that text a bit after receiving it, left me with the equivalent feeling that I had just banged my head against the sharp edge of an open cabinet door, or inadvertently crunched down on a piece of ice with an old metal filling, or took a fast breaking baseball pitch to the groin area (still hurts like a mamba! even if one does not possess all the male hardware). Yes, it felt like all of those horrible sensations in an instant but without the accompanying memory of having experienced those actions to elicit the pain. THAT is the lapse in texting: feeling disconnected even while connected.
Bad news by telephone is plenty bad. In the past decade, I've accepted more than what is anyone's fair share of bad news by phone. Hearing the voice on the other end relaying the heartbreak and horror of death and illness and madness is most unpleasant. And, it feels very real. When the sharp pain hits your chest, you know how it got there. When the air whooshes out of your lungs in a sudden deflating exhale of shock, you understand what caused it. When your teeth sing a song of grinding, you remember why they buzz in your head. Though the person on the other line may disconnect, the voice, the reason for the call, is fully-fleshed in your auditory senses. A phone call has the power to dim a sunset and drain the blood from a face: a phone call is wholly connected.
Right now, however, the reason for this vein of thought escapes me. What I feel is numb at more painful news from a person I allowed to take up space in my heart. As with each of us, that closeness allows a strong reaction to someone else's suffering to grab purchase within the cliffs of my inner landscape and make for the summit instead of remaining in the foothills where general bad news camps, inflicting smaller sorrows of compassion and commiseration that are devoid of truly personal connection. Though I grieve and fear for the impoverished island nation of Haiti and its peoples while they struggle to recover from a massive earthquake, I share no emotional ties with any one person, much less the country's population at large. But, to imagine a person with whom I have broken bread -- not to mention cheesecake and bottles of fine wine -- in a most helpless position is deeply lamentable. And, there is nothing, not one element outside of prayer and a shoulder, that is under my control. I can't even share the burden of his pain with him to spread it out a bit.
No, instead, there's one more person I must put before the throne of God in humility as I beseech Him for His grace and answers to prayer in the manner that He deems most appropriate to His purposes with yet another friend and family member.
Yesterday, I was prepared to comfort and care for a friend who was all set to lose his right lung to a third wave of cancer in order that he might live longer in this earthly plane. This was the worst case scenario. The possibility of death was a presence in the dark corner but not one invited to come out and play. Today, I am prepared to comfort and care for a friend who knows that outside of a miracle, he is now living each day with the knowledge that his death has stepped out into the spotlight and wishes to engage him fully.
I'm up to 30 push-ups at a time in my 120 every-other-day series. Let me at him! I can at least arm wrestle the cretin called cancer!
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Moment-ous
This is a moment's peace. A momentary peace. A moment of peace.
Me atop the comforter of our queen-sized bed in the dark of my bedroom. My husband breathing steadily and easily beside me, tucked beneath that same comforter, his gentle inhale and exhale exerting a soporific effect on my senses. Tomorrow has been declared a snow day by cautious county school officials, thus my middle-schooler and my high school junior float about the house like two unique flakes showered forth from the same impending storm, adrift in a haze of joyous delirium . . . they are possibly the closest any of us will get to actual SNOW. But, really, isn't that beside the point?
My family is fed: a belly-filling, hunger-satiating combination of vegetable-laden pork fried rice, homemade blue cornmeal cornbread, and pot roast leftovers dropped off by my mother, who hands-down wins the award for best roaster of red meat and veggies by every member of my immediate family. I shared a nibble of my 72% dark chocolate square with my spouse, lulled into complacency by his admiring crooning over my gray pants and black blouse combination, before he moved on to hang out with his guitar for a bit while I socialized over a few hands of Scrabble Slap with the youngsters in the house.
I've done a bit of pest-free and sweat-free farming on Facebook: doesn't hurt now and again. Where else can I plant and harvest from starfruit trees, black cats, and pink calves, AND send a few shout-outs to friends and family without tying up my ear and the phone lines?
At one point, I caught a sustained glimpse over the screen of my laptop of a show on the tellie about an organic chocolate shoppe in New York and decided it was necessary to track it down online. Boy, was THAT one of my better ideas of the night! CocaoVino was its name-o. It's safe to reveal that I have uncovered what I covet for my Valentine's Day dream chocolate fix of the year: can you say drunken fig, comprised of three decadent gourmet layers of palate-pleasing richness? And, organic and sustainable to boot!? Somebody please inform the proper purchasing romantic party. Thank you. The four-pack is plenty. It's not cheap, but I'm worth it!
My belly is pleasantly full of air-popped popcorn which I lightly sprayed with canola non-stick spray, sprinkled with sea salt, and very sparingly drizzled with dark agave nectar. I crunched and munched to my heart's content and worried not a lick or a wink over taking down the Christmas ornaments, balancing the checkbook, catching up on my important letter writing, or the state of the world and my role in it. No, my biggest concern was picking up the escapees and leaving no survivors!
Now, as my self-imposed midnight deadline fast approaches, I sense there is still time to floss and change into my long johns (worn inside out to encourage snow accumulation) without tempting the clock to tip over. The main impediment to this goal will be actually dragging my very comfortable body from its place of comfort atop bed and beneath laptop, swathed in the lovely loose knitted poncho sent to me from my Canadian cousin and leaving behind the sonorous strains of my husband's sleep sounds. I've no wish to upset the apple cart as I know what will come of it. This, too, shall pass.
But, it has been blessed relief. If only for a moment.
Me atop the comforter of our queen-sized bed in the dark of my bedroom. My husband breathing steadily and easily beside me, tucked beneath that same comforter, his gentle inhale and exhale exerting a soporific effect on my senses. Tomorrow has been declared a snow day by cautious county school officials, thus my middle-schooler and my high school junior float about the house like two unique flakes showered forth from the same impending storm, adrift in a haze of joyous delirium . . . they are possibly the closest any of us will get to actual SNOW. But, really, isn't that beside the point?
My family is fed: a belly-filling, hunger-satiating combination of vegetable-laden pork fried rice, homemade blue cornmeal cornbread, and pot roast leftovers dropped off by my mother, who hands-down wins the award for best roaster of red meat and veggies by every member of my immediate family. I shared a nibble of my 72% dark chocolate square with my spouse, lulled into complacency by his admiring crooning over my gray pants and black blouse combination, before he moved on to hang out with his guitar for a bit while I socialized over a few hands of Scrabble Slap with the youngsters in the house.
I've done a bit of pest-free and sweat-free farming on Facebook: doesn't hurt now and again. Where else can I plant and harvest from starfruit trees, black cats, and pink calves, AND send a few shout-outs to friends and family without tying up my ear and the phone lines?
At one point, I caught a sustained glimpse over the screen of my laptop of a show on the tellie about an organic chocolate shoppe in New York and decided it was necessary to track it down online. Boy, was THAT one of my better ideas of the night! CocaoVino was its name-o. It's safe to reveal that I have uncovered what I covet for my Valentine's Day dream chocolate fix of the year: can you say drunken fig, comprised of three decadent gourmet layers of palate-pleasing richness? And, organic and sustainable to boot!? Somebody please inform the proper purchasing romantic party. Thank you. The four-pack is plenty. It's not cheap, but I'm worth it!
My belly is pleasantly full of air-popped popcorn which I lightly sprayed with canola non-stick spray, sprinkled with sea salt, and very sparingly drizzled with dark agave nectar. I crunched and munched to my heart's content and worried not a lick or a wink over taking down the Christmas ornaments, balancing the checkbook, catching up on my important letter writing, or the state of the world and my role in it. No, my biggest concern was picking up the escapees and leaving no survivors!
Now, as my self-imposed midnight deadline fast approaches, I sense there is still time to floss and change into my long johns (worn inside out to encourage snow accumulation) without tempting the clock to tip over. The main impediment to this goal will be actually dragging my very comfortable body from its place of comfort atop bed and beneath laptop, swathed in the lovely loose knitted poncho sent to me from my Canadian cousin and leaving behind the sonorous strains of my husband's sleep sounds. I've no wish to upset the apple cart as I know what will come of it. This, too, shall pass.
But, it has been blessed relief. If only for a moment.
Monday, January 4, 2010
World Peace, One Cookie At A Time?
Eight minutes to midnight. I await the drying of the second drizzled layer of chocolate -- this coat the melted white chocolate, so pretty a contrast against the previous layer of dark Ghiradelli chocolate -- all on a batch of biscotti baked last night for my ailing cousin, who's week has been difficult, and my big sister, whose just-a-bit-over-21st birthday falls this weekend on the same day as my father-in-law's.
I'm trying to come to terms with my compulsiveness over certain things: baking comfort food and mailing it off to random friends and relatives being one of them. (It's right up there with fantastical desserts for my Bunco ladies when its my month to host -- Starburst candies make wonderful flowers for orange chiffon cake; or, containers and plates of various and sundry pies, cookies, cakes, and the like for my neighbors to try.) It's not as if I didn't concoct upwards of ten batches of multi-flavored biscotti for folks less than a month ago. (It's not even as if I didn't recently have three or four pieces with my Refresh herbal tea while making dinner!) I can't help myself. Truly. I've tried. Alas, the ambassador within me runs headlong into the curious confectioner also within, and the yearning to tempt my fellow man with delightfully unique and wholesome sweet treats overtakes my practical side. If anything, I only regret that I could not mail as many boxes of my crunchy Italian cookies to as many contacts as existed on my 120+ Christmas card list. You all know who you are!
If I could bake the world into generosity of spirit and lightness of being, I would measure, mix, whip, roll, set at 350 degrees, dry, and dip in a non-stop succession of doughs, batters, crusts, and fillings. If a lemon curd island set atop an oasis of creamy white coconut cake would set fire to hard hearts in dark corners of the world, I would beat beat every egg white within a mile into submission in order to frost countless 3-tiered confections and and carefully coddle their accompanying yolks into a heated bath of tangy juice and melted butter, all the while hunting down the appropriate shipping containers: each box to be overnighted to warlords and hatemongers in war zone hotspots across this vast globe. If buttercream could calm the savage beast, I would fill tubes with the stuff and hand it out at street corners, instructions for application given with a grin and a hug. And, if the heady combination of cream cheese and pumpkin swirled atop a gingery-buttery graham cracker crust could elicit justice from the unfair, shortage be damned, I'd buy up every jack-o-lantern squash and canned counterpart for my soon-to-be-weary Springform pan.
But, peace and grace do not flow from the perfect perimeter of a Red Velvet cupcake, nor are they licked from the peeled paper wrap. Saigon cinnamon sprinkled atop the ruddy surface of a simple snickerdoodle cookie will not bring about a cessation to bus bombings and plane attacks. The perfect pearls of mildly chewy tapioca suspended in a bath of slightly viscous boiled milk and vanilla will not string their way from barrio to hovel to inner city, bringing soft opaque light to troubled souls. Even my husband's favorite celebration of sweet -- Nilla wafers marching up the side of a glass bowl, sliced coins of banana set in a deep bath of lovely thick pudding, extra crushed wafers skimming the surface like fallen skaters on a snow-covered frozen pond -- does not have to power to encourage a general cease and desist.
No, alas, all the whole wheat pastry flour and baking powder in the world will not create a soft enough landing for most people moving through the minefields of their difficult lives. Still, the dreamer within me, the hope and faith attached to such dreams like long tails on a high-flying kite, they refuse to relinquish their grip on the burdened heart of this one suburban housewife set adrift in the northern side of an average town in the middle of Tennessee.
Mine is not an average heart, comprised of mere sinewy chambers through which blood ebbs and flows; I'm quite certain it was formed within my chest by merit of Godly yeast and double-proofed raising. It certainly feels as if it has been kneaded doubly hard! So, when you taste the goods which have sprung forth from my hands, you savor not only the wholesomeness of a toasted almond or an anti-oxidant rich dried cranberry, you sample not just a cross between what I watched Giada di Laurentis do and what I thought would be a most excellent tweak . . . you partake of a piece of my heart. It's that secret ingredient I can reveal but cannot be purchased in bag, bottle, or box at Kroger or World Market. When you accept, either fork or hand to mouth, dipped in tea or accompanied with a cold glass of milk, laughingly shared with a friend, even by the late night illumination of the refrigerator, my stores are replenished and my heart is free to give yet again and again in earnest and generous pre-portioned measure.
Double-chocolate biscotti, anyone?
I'm trying to come to terms with my compulsiveness over certain things: baking comfort food and mailing it off to random friends and relatives being one of them. (It's right up there with fantastical desserts for my Bunco ladies when its my month to host -- Starburst candies make wonderful flowers for orange chiffon cake; or, containers and plates of various and sundry pies, cookies, cakes, and the like for my neighbors to try.) It's not as if I didn't concoct upwards of ten batches of multi-flavored biscotti for folks less than a month ago. (It's not even as if I didn't recently have three or four pieces with my Refresh herbal tea while making dinner!) I can't help myself. Truly. I've tried. Alas, the ambassador within me runs headlong into the curious confectioner also within, and the yearning to tempt my fellow man with delightfully unique and wholesome sweet treats overtakes my practical side. If anything, I only regret that I could not mail as many boxes of my crunchy Italian cookies to as many contacts as existed on my 120+ Christmas card list. You all know who you are!
If I could bake the world into generosity of spirit and lightness of being, I would measure, mix, whip, roll, set at 350 degrees, dry, and dip in a non-stop succession of doughs, batters, crusts, and fillings. If a lemon curd island set atop an oasis of creamy white coconut cake would set fire to hard hearts in dark corners of the world, I would beat beat every egg white within a mile into submission in order to frost countless 3-tiered confections and and carefully coddle their accompanying yolks into a heated bath of tangy juice and melted butter, all the while hunting down the appropriate shipping containers: each box to be overnighted to warlords and hatemongers in war zone hotspots across this vast globe. If buttercream could calm the savage beast, I would fill tubes with the stuff and hand it out at street corners, instructions for application given with a grin and a hug. And, if the heady combination of cream cheese and pumpkin swirled atop a gingery-buttery graham cracker crust could elicit justice from the unfair, shortage be damned, I'd buy up every jack-o-lantern squash and canned counterpart for my soon-to-be-weary Springform pan.
But, peace and grace do not flow from the perfect perimeter of a Red Velvet cupcake, nor are they licked from the peeled paper wrap. Saigon cinnamon sprinkled atop the ruddy surface of a simple snickerdoodle cookie will not bring about a cessation to bus bombings and plane attacks. The perfect pearls of mildly chewy tapioca suspended in a bath of slightly viscous boiled milk and vanilla will not string their way from barrio to hovel to inner city, bringing soft opaque light to troubled souls. Even my husband's favorite celebration of sweet -- Nilla wafers marching up the side of a glass bowl, sliced coins of banana set in a deep bath of lovely thick pudding, extra crushed wafers skimming the surface like fallen skaters on a snow-covered frozen pond -- does not have to power to encourage a general cease and desist.
No, alas, all the whole wheat pastry flour and baking powder in the world will not create a soft enough landing for most people moving through the minefields of their difficult lives. Still, the dreamer within me, the hope and faith attached to such dreams like long tails on a high-flying kite, they refuse to relinquish their grip on the burdened heart of this one suburban housewife set adrift in the northern side of an average town in the middle of Tennessee.
Mine is not an average heart, comprised of mere sinewy chambers through which blood ebbs and flows; I'm quite certain it was formed within my chest by merit of Godly yeast and double-proofed raising. It certainly feels as if it has been kneaded doubly hard! So, when you taste the goods which have sprung forth from my hands, you savor not only the wholesomeness of a toasted almond or an anti-oxidant rich dried cranberry, you sample not just a cross between what I watched Giada di Laurentis do and what I thought would be a most excellent tweak . . . you partake of a piece of my heart. It's that secret ingredient I can reveal but cannot be purchased in bag, bottle, or box at Kroger or World Market. When you accept, either fork or hand to mouth, dipped in tea or accompanied with a cold glass of milk, laughingly shared with a friend, even by the late night illumination of the refrigerator, my stores are replenished and my heart is free to give yet again and again in earnest and generous pre-portioned measure.
Double-chocolate biscotti, anyone?
Thursday, December 31, 2009
All I Need Is Julie Andrews
(Written to the tune "My Favorite Things" from "The Sound of Music,
with just a FEW extra verses - HEY! It was a full year!)
Polar Bear Plunge not just once but try three times
Daily long walks with my old dog when she whines
Dark chocolate in boxes and coconut cakes for church
And my favorite red cardinals on my redbud did perch
The Big Apple we bit for our anniversary of twenty
Broadway and skyscrapers, food and frolic in plenty
Julia Roberts was with Regis but my story fell flat
The Hamptons and Jimmers tried cheering me STAT!
Tornado on Good Friday just missed us by THAT MUCH
Our city felt true loss but mass generosity a huge crutch
My video caught tragedy and the newspapers they wrote
Parts of the story to the Weather Channel did float
The Becks swooped on in and a road trip we did make
With mom to Missouri for a car that we did take
Fun fights over Twizzlers and licorice did rule
Boy, that Craig and that Tempa are sure pretty cool!
When my weight’s up
When I can’t sup
When it’s time for Advil
I try and recall just what’s in my cup
And then I regain my good will
The 4th in Colorado was a holiday to remember
Since we can’t fly over to see everyone in December
Galvans and Geisers, Aguirre, Sanchez, and Sweigard
Ann, Reba, and Katie were all fine reward
There were weddings and funerals and 5 brand new babies
I met with my Earth Divas, a fine bunch of ladies
Sarah got her license and Zach lost his braces
John and Ash' huge pup is still licking faces
Roofers with nail guns and Bunco wine at Nancy’s
My 40th birthday month with all sorts of fancies
A haircut and blog did make their big reveal
And South Carolina was fabulously surreal!
Turkey Day with Valdez’, including our Ollie
Biscotti in batches sent everywhere but Raleigh
John got his dream job and Gary a new life
My neighbors are All-good, Lockyear, Kenny and his wife.
For two days Uncle Zopie convinced me to sit down
Oh, the Mission Trip snot caught with nary a frown!
Facebook brought to me a world of old and new
Lost friends in Smyrna and Canadian cousins,too
When the kids yell
When things ain’t swell
When I’m less than fine
I make myself focus and then choose to dwell
On all of my highlights . . . for 2009!
with just a FEW extra verses - HEY! It was a full year!)
Polar Bear Plunge not just once but try three times
Daily long walks with my old dog when she whines
Dark chocolate in boxes and coconut cakes for church
And my favorite red cardinals on my redbud did perch
The Big Apple we bit for our anniversary of twenty
Broadway and skyscrapers, food and frolic in plenty
Julia Roberts was with Regis but my story fell flat
The Hamptons and Jimmers tried cheering me STAT!
Tornado on Good Friday just missed us by THAT MUCH
Our city felt true loss but mass generosity a huge crutch
My video caught tragedy and the newspapers they wrote
Parts of the story to the Weather Channel did float
The Becks swooped on in and a road trip we did make
With mom to Missouri for a car that we did take
Fun fights over Twizzlers and licorice did rule
Boy, that Craig and that Tempa are sure pretty cool!
When my weight’s up
When I can’t sup
When it’s time for Advil
I try and recall just what’s in my cup
And then I regain my good will
The 4th in Colorado was a holiday to remember
Since we can’t fly over to see everyone in December
Galvans and Geisers, Aguirre, Sanchez, and Sweigard
Ann, Reba, and Katie were all fine reward
There were weddings and funerals and 5 brand new babies
I met with my Earth Divas, a fine bunch of ladies
Sarah got her license and Zach lost his braces
John and Ash' huge pup is still licking faces
Roofers with nail guns and Bunco wine at Nancy’s
My 40th birthday month with all sorts of fancies
A haircut and blog did make their big reveal
And South Carolina was fabulously surreal!
Turkey Day with Valdez’, including our Ollie
Biscotti in batches sent everywhere but Raleigh
John got his dream job and Gary a new life
My neighbors are All-good, Lockyear, Kenny and his wife.
For two days Uncle Zopie convinced me to sit down
Oh, the Mission Trip snot caught with nary a frown!
Facebook brought to me a world of old and new
Lost friends in Smyrna and Canadian cousins,too
When the kids yell
When things ain’t swell
When I’m less than fine
I make myself focus and then choose to dwell
On all of my highlights . . . for 2009!
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
A Puddle of Interest
The sky spreads out beneath my foot, rippling blue washing out to muddy brown along the edges. It's a revelation to me: my size 9's treading across the heavens, even if only for the briefest of moments. Tree tops emerge from the toes of my shoe, the green leaves an impromptu spray of color across my silver-topped sneaker. There is a world at my feet in an instant and then lost just as suddenly as I walk on through. Splash! Splash! The hem of my pants absorbs the caps of tiny waves. For a moment, I am the unintentional creator of a monsoonal event. And then it passes. The sea is calm. Left behind is the oak leaf my eyes sought initially, a wee boat afloat in the puddle spanning the corner of this street I daily pace.
It has no place left to go. No other shores upon which to dock. And, soon, this weathered vessel will be land bound when the waters upon which it sails dry, revealing the concrete basin which played temporary host to this mini oceanic vista. The winds will come. The winds will take it away, catching like the sails on a true ship, lifting it to the true skies high above the true tree tops. There, no mirror exists of the world below. No giant foot sprouts green hair and crosses the great expanse in a few single steps. There are no inconsequential storms without reverberations. There . . . all is permanent. All is real.
I turn for one last look at the mud puddle and its rustic boat moving slowly across the safe surface. I enjoy the illusion a final time before again moving on. Full steam ahead.
It has no place left to go. No other shores upon which to dock. And, soon, this weathered vessel will be land bound when the waters upon which it sails dry, revealing the concrete basin which played temporary host to this mini oceanic vista. The winds will come. The winds will take it away, catching like the sails on a true ship, lifting it to the true skies high above the true tree tops. There, no mirror exists of the world below. No giant foot sprouts green hair and crosses the great expanse in a few single steps. There are no inconsequential storms without reverberations. There . . . all is permanent. All is real.
I turn for one last look at the mud puddle and its rustic boat moving slowly across the safe surface. I enjoy the illusion a final time before again moving on. Full steam ahead.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
A Tiger and His Tail
So what are we gonna do about ol' Tiger Woods? It seems he's been driving long past the fairway and putting far beyond the green. So much so that, ahem, his balls are now in the rough. In fact, it appears his wife may be the Woods' family member to receive the lion's share of the press coverage in the immediate future for her golf club wielding form.
Unless you dwell in a cave, camp on a remote cliff, or reside outside the reach of broadcast technology, the recent story concerning the world-class golfer phenom has probably crossed your path more than a few times in the past week or so. He had a minor traffic accident in the wee hours of the morning on his very own street. Initial stories reported his wife used a golf club - perhaps a 5 iron? - to rescue him; later stories suggested she utilized it to clobber him after discovering he'd been seeing another woman. At last glance, that tally was up to four extra-marital physical relationships as well-built unknowns have emerged to clamor for the public spotlight.
Whatever the real story is, the press and the public are gobbling it up, hand over fist, serving up and consuming new versions, edited versions, and alleged versions with dizzying speed. Until now, this mega golf champion enjoyed ultra-positive coverage in the media, including a polished appearance on the "Oprah Winfrey Show" several years back with Miss Oprah herself leading the adoring fan pack. He could do no wrong. Multi-million dollar endorsement deals sealed his financial success and introduced him into the living rooms of viewers who otherwise had no interest in how many strokes he took to get from hole 1 to hole 18 on any given PGA day. Though he did not lay singular claim to his black heritage - instead choosing to encapsulate his mixed Asian, African American, Caucasian blood with the term 'Cablinasian - he was considered the next black athlete superstar when Michael Jordan stepped down. In all arenas, Tiger Woods managed to appear endearingly wholesome, appealingly virile, and beyond fault.
Now, back to my opening question: what are we gonna do about Mr. Woods?
WE shouldn't do anything about Tiger Woods. I'm fairly certain his WIFE will do something about him, perhaps something TO him. She may even take him someWHERE: to counseling, to court, to the 'cleaners!' As well she should take her tiger by his tail! It is their private relationship business, after all. He's neither a pastor nor a politician. He didn't abuse a minor or rape a golf groupie. If all as it seems to be shaping up, he's simply a famous philanderer. Perhaps a STUPID famous philanderer. Whoa . . . how original!
But US, the big WE, the adoring fans, the admiring public, even the apathetic viewers, who collectively gasped and wallowed in shock at this older-than-dirt transgression between man and woman, women, whatever number, we should only be surprised at ourselves! Who told us Tiger could do no wrong? Who told us to believe his public image? Who told us he existed outside the scope of temptation and marital discord? Just because he can swing a big stick with grace and hit a wee round target into a distant pocket within the earth better than most other human beings on this planet is no reason at all to dismiss his very humanity. As singularly unique as he is in comparison to most of us folks, there yet remain sharp points of commonality that not a one of us can escape. For a wide variety of reasons - and in Tiger's case, fairly expected and predictable reasons given his status and wealth - husbands stray off course and venture into sand traps (wives do, too, but the numbers tend to lean toward our testosterone-laden gents), often sinking knee deep before they realize the position they've put themselves and those around them in for the sake of an urge.
Yes, he's famous and as such provides excellent fodder for the news outlets when his Escalade gently crashes into a tree. Yes, there are those train wreck-watchers who take a sick delight in witnessing the unexpected fall of a hero. But, when do WE draw the line in the sand? When do we decide to exercise our option to choose real news over salacious gossip? When do we lower the curtain of privacy over a hurting family and allow them the chance to deal and heal outside the scope of prying eyes? When do we discourage fame seekers from making laughing-stocks of themselves by refusing to attend their press conferences and leaving their 'rag' stories on the rack? When do we say enough is enough . . . ENOUGH ALREADY . . . and democratically determine ourselves to be a nation of grown-ups with enough problems in our government, health system, infrastructure, and our own backyards to keep us busy for a decade of Sundays?
I'm thinking today is good.
Unless you dwell in a cave, camp on a remote cliff, or reside outside the reach of broadcast technology, the recent story concerning the world-class golfer phenom has probably crossed your path more than a few times in the past week or so. He had a minor traffic accident in the wee hours of the morning on his very own street. Initial stories reported his wife used a golf club - perhaps a 5 iron? - to rescue him; later stories suggested she utilized it to clobber him after discovering he'd been seeing another woman. At last glance, that tally was up to four extra-marital physical relationships as well-built unknowns have emerged to clamor for the public spotlight.
Whatever the real story is, the press and the public are gobbling it up, hand over fist, serving up and consuming new versions, edited versions, and alleged versions with dizzying speed. Until now, this mega golf champion enjoyed ultra-positive coverage in the media, including a polished appearance on the "Oprah Winfrey Show" several years back with Miss Oprah herself leading the adoring fan pack. He could do no wrong. Multi-million dollar endorsement deals sealed his financial success and introduced him into the living rooms of viewers who otherwise had no interest in how many strokes he took to get from hole 1 to hole 18 on any given PGA day. Though he did not lay singular claim to his black heritage - instead choosing to encapsulate his mixed Asian, African American, Caucasian blood with the term 'Cablinasian - he was considered the next black athlete superstar when Michael Jordan stepped down. In all arenas, Tiger Woods managed to appear endearingly wholesome, appealingly virile, and beyond fault.
Now, back to my opening question: what are we gonna do about Mr. Woods?
WE shouldn't do anything about Tiger Woods. I'm fairly certain his WIFE will do something about him, perhaps something TO him. She may even take him someWHERE: to counseling, to court, to the 'cleaners!' As well she should take her tiger by his tail! It is their private relationship business, after all. He's neither a pastor nor a politician. He didn't abuse a minor or rape a golf groupie. If all as it seems to be shaping up, he's simply a famous philanderer. Perhaps a STUPID famous philanderer. Whoa . . . how original!
But US, the big WE, the adoring fans, the admiring public, even the apathetic viewers, who collectively gasped and wallowed in shock at this older-than-dirt transgression between man and woman, women, whatever number, we should only be surprised at ourselves! Who told us Tiger could do no wrong? Who told us to believe his public image? Who told us he existed outside the scope of temptation and marital discord? Just because he can swing a big stick with grace and hit a wee round target into a distant pocket within the earth better than most other human beings on this planet is no reason at all to dismiss his very humanity. As singularly unique as he is in comparison to most of us folks, there yet remain sharp points of commonality that not a one of us can escape. For a wide variety of reasons - and in Tiger's case, fairly expected and predictable reasons given his status and wealth - husbands stray off course and venture into sand traps (wives do, too, but the numbers tend to lean toward our testosterone-laden gents), often sinking knee deep before they realize the position they've put themselves and those around them in for the sake of an urge.
Yes, he's famous and as such provides excellent fodder for the news outlets when his Escalade gently crashes into a tree. Yes, there are those train wreck-watchers who take a sick delight in witnessing the unexpected fall of a hero. But, when do WE draw the line in the sand? When do we decide to exercise our option to choose real news over salacious gossip? When do we lower the curtain of privacy over a hurting family and allow them the chance to deal and heal outside the scope of prying eyes? When do we discourage fame seekers from making laughing-stocks of themselves by refusing to attend their press conferences and leaving their 'rag' stories on the rack? When do we say enough is enough . . . ENOUGH ALREADY . . . and democratically determine ourselves to be a nation of grown-ups with enough problems in our government, health system, infrastructure, and our own backyards to keep us busy for a decade of Sundays?
I'm thinking today is good.
Thursday, December 3, 2009
Hoping Late Into The Night
It's another 1AM kind of evening, backsliding every so wearily into morning. It is dark outside but with a full moon offering relief from the deeper darkness that I know resides around the world and around the clock. It is these dark things, dark acts, darker hearts, which often invade my mind and disallow the natural cycle of sleep, night after night.
But maybe I should be more specific. My words make it sound as if I lie awake pondering all manner of crime and plunder, fearing what comes next, anxious over that from which I can not protect my children, drowning out the evil voices and tortured mental images with a healthy dose of 24-hour technology, salty snacks, and a good book or ten.
I don't . . . though I am all too aware of these elements. The awareness has, over the course of my forty years, broken and re-broken my heart to the point where, though it is mended, the repaired shape resembles very little the original vessel appointed me at the hour of my birth. This new vessel, however, is better able to take on and retain a very precious cargo: that of hope. It is the possibility of hope, of human conversion triumphing over the blighted darkness, which stirs me into a state of 'unsleep.'
There was a family conversation around the kitchen island earlier this evening: an active debate concerning the overall character of people who make racist remarks and perpetuate the caustic slurs created by the white man to exert power over the 'lesser' peoples of the lands he chose to invade and conquer for resources and riches, whether or not he actually held 'ownership' of said lands. We hit upon England, France, Spain. Traveled over the controversial terrain of Christopher Columbus. Settled amongst the Indians of North America and the original inhabitants of Texas. Contemplated entire tribes ripped apart on the African continent, made to endure generations of subservience, expected to live out their hard-fought freedom on the continent not of their choosing in a hostile environment.
It's origins stemmed from the revelation of an incident between my son and an acquaintance from school. A sharing of a painful secret followed by an inadvertent revelation to others resulting in a shoving match in the cafeteria. The other boy, shamed by what his fellow students had overheard, reached for his secret weapon, eager to inflict a comparable amount of shame on my son. "You dirty Mexican!" he yelled. Volleying back, my hormonal 14 year-old threatened to beat the crap out of him if he didn't shut up. Teachers got involved. The vice-principal was informed. My son hid the story from us for a day, though he nervously told the higher-ups otherwise, until the ol' iPhone informed me the middle school is a'calling. Fast forward to a 3-day suspension for each kid and a PMS'ing mama who manages to maintain her cool . . . but just barely.
My issue with the adolescent moment is probably not what most of you think. Though I am, for all intents and purposes, the white man in my family -- German, Swedish, possibly English, with a smattering of American Indian of which specific nation I am ignorant -- as my husband is of mixed-Hispanic descent with a splash of French somewhere in the mix, I am fully aware of prejudice and have experienced its toxic effects to an extent. Though a story for another day, my stepfather of many years during the tender years of my own adolescence was a black man who served in the Vietnam War and suffered horribly for it. His marriage to my mother created unwelcome buzz in our extended family and caused a stir in public settings in many a venue. Our nomadic lifestyle placed us in schools and in neighborhoods where we were not always the majority. I don't write any of this to say I could ever fully understand what it is to be a minority and be forced to endure the unfairness of social dislike based solely on skin color and ethnic origin. I only endeavor to explain that my limited exposure created within me strong empathy and an unending desire to press on in the face of this ignorant giant, striking it down limb by limb. I understand that while the whole may be impossible to conquer, taking down its members, one by one, might just topple the infrastructure of racism.
So, the discourse between mother and son focused less on the hateful words and more on the reaction he had to the words. And, also how he will choose to react to such words, feelings, undercurrents in the workplace and the dating scene, etc., etc. in his high school years, college, and beyond. My position is simply that he can't fight as big an opponent as prejudice with his fists every time he comes into contact with it. In fact, I assert that he gives prejudice the upper hand each time he reacts with emotion rather than using a 'think twice, speak once' approach. Though action movies tend to say differently, I believe the reasons for a just knockdown-dragout are actually few and far between. We all see the ongoing effects of sustained war: glorified fighting with countless casualties on both sides. Instead, the right words, or a decided and deliberate lack thereof, might actually persuade the offender to reconsider. Either in the moment or on down the line. Plant a seed, not a fist.
I want my son to believe there are possibilities for change and they can begin with him. My advice was to practice a few choice lines at home for use in such situations to let other kids know it isn't all right to address him as such (because terms like 'beaner' and 'wetback' are evidently tossed about in less tense, more casual settings) without bringing an altercation to the school lunch table. I told everyone, as we licked the last bit of blueberry pie from our bowls, that most people are not all bad, including those harboring the ignorance that is racism. Internally, there are blind spots within all of us to truth and reality. Knocking down walls and aiming a floodlight in those areas does wonders. If we remember that we have power beyond violence, we can be an instrument for truth. Be aware of the bad but reach for the good. Period.
My husband says I've watched "Remember the Titans" with Denzel Washington one too many times. Huh. He's seen the football flick more times than I have, but the interesting point he may have forgotten in the glib delivery of the remark is this: it was all true. A racially divided town, school, and football team really did experience change-of-heart and extraordinary, seemingly impossible friendships did develop. My husband says he has no use for people who use racially-charged words. They are inherently bad and don't deserve a second chance. He says if I was something other than white, I would feel the same way. But, I pointed out that I know plenty of non-white folks who do not believe as he does. And, further, I've had enough scenarios thrown at me over the years -- difficult childhood, running away, brother in prison, the drowning of my niece and nephew at the hands of my post-partum psychotic sister, enduring private disappointments -- to witness myself in action: though not a perfect human being, I practice the very fundamental beliefs I preach. If I was a person of color but retained the same personality and character, I know I would always hope, and seek the truth, and try to exact peaceful influence if at all possible.
It's not all right that a teenage boy who plays on the same baseball team as my son, attends the same classes with him each school day, and has parents at home capable of imparting awareness the same as my son, called him a 'dirty Mexican.' It's not all right that stronger examples of ignorance and hatred exist and happen in our city, our county, our state, within the borders of our country, and around this globe on a 24/7 basis. The long list of crime shows to be found on the television didn't invent the atrocities which are the bread-and-butter of their plot lines. No, we are spinning on an axis of evil which could very well overwhelm us but for the one thing I refuse to surrender despite all I know: the faithful practice of hope. One person at a time. One after-midnight blog at a time.
Starting with me.
(I was fully prepared for bed at 5 minutes to 1AM. Then came the end credits for the very intense "A Time To Kill" with Samuel L. Jackson, Sandra Bullock, and Matthew McConaughey. Though I've seen this film before, and read the book, I found myself with intense visceral reactions at several key points in the show. The gospel song bringing down the house as the key grip, animal trainer, and set design designates scrolled down the screen stirred my writing juices.
Please note: I realize that the 'white man' did not invent prejudice or racism. Even within the same race, people managed to create systems whereby the powerful exercised their seeming superiority over the powerless. However, for our intents, in modern and historical America, with our unresolved issues concerning Black America and the polarizing debate over our illegal population of Mexican residents, the weighted term 'white man' fits the bill.)
But maybe I should be more specific. My words make it sound as if I lie awake pondering all manner of crime and plunder, fearing what comes next, anxious over that from which I can not protect my children, drowning out the evil voices and tortured mental images with a healthy dose of 24-hour technology, salty snacks, and a good book or ten.
I don't . . . though I am all too aware of these elements. The awareness has, over the course of my forty years, broken and re-broken my heart to the point where, though it is mended, the repaired shape resembles very little the original vessel appointed me at the hour of my birth. This new vessel, however, is better able to take on and retain a very precious cargo: that of hope. It is the possibility of hope, of human conversion triumphing over the blighted darkness, which stirs me into a state of 'unsleep.'
There was a family conversation around the kitchen island earlier this evening: an active debate concerning the overall character of people who make racist remarks and perpetuate the caustic slurs created by the white man to exert power over the 'lesser' peoples of the lands he chose to invade and conquer for resources and riches, whether or not he actually held 'ownership' of said lands. We hit upon England, France, Spain. Traveled over the controversial terrain of Christopher Columbus. Settled amongst the Indians of North America and the original inhabitants of Texas. Contemplated entire tribes ripped apart on the African continent, made to endure generations of subservience, expected to live out their hard-fought freedom on the continent not of their choosing in a hostile environment.
It's origins stemmed from the revelation of an incident between my son and an acquaintance from school. A sharing of a painful secret followed by an inadvertent revelation to others resulting in a shoving match in the cafeteria. The other boy, shamed by what his fellow students had overheard, reached for his secret weapon, eager to inflict a comparable amount of shame on my son. "You dirty Mexican!" he yelled. Volleying back, my hormonal 14 year-old threatened to beat the crap out of him if he didn't shut up. Teachers got involved. The vice-principal was informed. My son hid the story from us for a day, though he nervously told the higher-ups otherwise, until the ol' iPhone informed me the middle school is a'calling. Fast forward to a 3-day suspension for each kid and a PMS'ing mama who manages to maintain her cool . . . but just barely.
My issue with the adolescent moment is probably not what most of you think. Though I am, for all intents and purposes, the white man in my family -- German, Swedish, possibly English, with a smattering of American Indian of which specific nation I am ignorant -- as my husband is of mixed-Hispanic descent with a splash of French somewhere in the mix, I am fully aware of prejudice and have experienced its toxic effects to an extent. Though a story for another day, my stepfather of many years during the tender years of my own adolescence was a black man who served in the Vietnam War and suffered horribly for it. His marriage to my mother created unwelcome buzz in our extended family and caused a stir in public settings in many a venue. Our nomadic lifestyle placed us in schools and in neighborhoods where we were not always the majority. I don't write any of this to say I could ever fully understand what it is to be a minority and be forced to endure the unfairness of social dislike based solely on skin color and ethnic origin. I only endeavor to explain that my limited exposure created within me strong empathy and an unending desire to press on in the face of this ignorant giant, striking it down limb by limb. I understand that while the whole may be impossible to conquer, taking down its members, one by one, might just topple the infrastructure of racism.
So, the discourse between mother and son focused less on the hateful words and more on the reaction he had to the words. And, also how he will choose to react to such words, feelings, undercurrents in the workplace and the dating scene, etc., etc. in his high school years, college, and beyond. My position is simply that he can't fight as big an opponent as prejudice with his fists every time he comes into contact with it. In fact, I assert that he gives prejudice the upper hand each time he reacts with emotion rather than using a 'think twice, speak once' approach. Though action movies tend to say differently, I believe the reasons for a just knockdown-dragout are actually few and far between. We all see the ongoing effects of sustained war: glorified fighting with countless casualties on both sides. Instead, the right words, or a decided and deliberate lack thereof, might actually persuade the offender to reconsider. Either in the moment or on down the line. Plant a seed, not a fist.
I want my son to believe there are possibilities for change and they can begin with him. My advice was to practice a few choice lines at home for use in such situations to let other kids know it isn't all right to address him as such (because terms like 'beaner' and 'wetback' are evidently tossed about in less tense, more casual settings) without bringing an altercation to the school lunch table. I told everyone, as we licked the last bit of blueberry pie from our bowls, that most people are not all bad, including those harboring the ignorance that is racism. Internally, there are blind spots within all of us to truth and reality. Knocking down walls and aiming a floodlight in those areas does wonders. If we remember that we have power beyond violence, we can be an instrument for truth. Be aware of the bad but reach for the good. Period.
My husband says I've watched "Remember the Titans" with Denzel Washington one too many times. Huh. He's seen the football flick more times than I have, but the interesting point he may have forgotten in the glib delivery of the remark is this: it was all true. A racially divided town, school, and football team really did experience change-of-heart and extraordinary, seemingly impossible friendships did develop. My husband says he has no use for people who use racially-charged words. They are inherently bad and don't deserve a second chance. He says if I was something other than white, I would feel the same way. But, I pointed out that I know plenty of non-white folks who do not believe as he does. And, further, I've had enough scenarios thrown at me over the years -- difficult childhood, running away, brother in prison, the drowning of my niece and nephew at the hands of my post-partum psychotic sister, enduring private disappointments -- to witness myself in action: though not a perfect human being, I practice the very fundamental beliefs I preach. If I was a person of color but retained the same personality and character, I know I would always hope, and seek the truth, and try to exact peaceful influence if at all possible.
It's not all right that a teenage boy who plays on the same baseball team as my son, attends the same classes with him each school day, and has parents at home capable of imparting awareness the same as my son, called him a 'dirty Mexican.' It's not all right that stronger examples of ignorance and hatred exist and happen in our city, our county, our state, within the borders of our country, and around this globe on a 24/7 basis. The long list of crime shows to be found on the television didn't invent the atrocities which are the bread-and-butter of their plot lines. No, we are spinning on an axis of evil which could very well overwhelm us but for the one thing I refuse to surrender despite all I know: the faithful practice of hope. One person at a time. One after-midnight blog at a time.
Starting with me.
(I was fully prepared for bed at 5 minutes to 1AM. Then came the end credits for the very intense "A Time To Kill" with Samuel L. Jackson, Sandra Bullock, and Matthew McConaughey. Though I've seen this film before, and read the book, I found myself with intense visceral reactions at several key points in the show. The gospel song bringing down the house as the key grip, animal trainer, and set design designates scrolled down the screen stirred my writing juices.
Please note: I realize that the 'white man' did not invent prejudice or racism. Even within the same race, people managed to create systems whereby the powerful exercised their seeming superiority over the powerless. However, for our intents, in modern and historical America, with our unresolved issues concerning Black America and the polarizing debate over our illegal population of Mexican residents, the weighted term 'white man' fits the bill.)
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