Portfolio Review. The words themselves are enough to make new homeschoolers break out in a cold sweat.
This is our first year of homeschooling, and it's had its ups and downs. We began in July, after careful evaluation and planning. We've been official since September - the State only operates on a traditional school year. We can either have our daughter tested annually (a process she does not manage well) or have her portfolio reviewed by a Maine certified teacher. We've opted for the latter.
I keep careful records and samples of all her work. I have the portfolio in process. We truly want her to learn, to grow, to achieve. We don't fake any records, and I certainly don't give her automatic A's - she has to earn every grade she is given. And yes, she has even failed at times.
She is learning subjects she has never been exposed to previously. Her math is now at an 8th grade level, from the 5th grade level she began at in July. (She's technically a 6th grader). Her reading and comprehension are at a 9th grade level now. Her vocabulary is better than most college students. She is currently studying Latin, Photography, Culinary, Chemistry, Maine History, Music History, Art History and many other subjects. Intellectually, I know she is well above where normal sixth graders are intellectually and socially.
And yet, I fear the portfolio review with an unmatched trepidation.
Locating a certified teacher willing to review her portfolio is a challenge. I've researched local groups, and found that the homeschool groups for the state have a couple of teachers that meet with everyone anually to review portfolios. But do I really want someone who is not familiar with us, our manner of instruction, or our goals, to review and certify our work? Homeschoolers of Maine has a certified teacher (and former homeschooler) who does reviews annually for fifty dollars. Yes, I'm sure being a homeschool veteran she understands the process and the multiple aspects of instruction. But HoME is a Christian-based group - will we not pass if we have not provided religious instruction? There is something to be said for knowing the family, the child(ren), and the methods of learning and instruction. I instruct my daughter upwards of nine or ten hours some days. It may seem like a lot to some, but I follow my daughters lead on these days. If she is enveloped in a chemical process, I don't stop her to begin another lesson. I let her go - allowing her to become invested in her own learning process. She reads each and every day, and her favorite local place to visit (aside from her new nephew's house) is the library. This brings me immense joy - two years ago she hated reading and anything associated with it.
There is a movement within the ranks of homeschoolers to publicize the benefits - the children and fmailies who begin college at fourteen, who discover new methods of generating heat, who enter medical school at seventeen. But I never hear about the families who don't succeed. I don't hear about the family who tried homeschooling and miserably failed when presenting their portfolio. What happens then? In failure we learn, we experience - even if it is not our own.
Another aspect of HoME's evaluation process - it's done without you present. What if they have questions? Shouldn't the teacher be able to converse with you and/or the child? What about the parents who fake the portfolio, making it look like their child has learned 4 languages, three instruments and is now working on solving problems in quantum physics all at the age of nine? Wouldn't it be prudent to simply ask the child to play "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" on the xylophone?
I tried to contact one of my daughter's former teachers - one that has since retired. I really liked her, although she was not my daughter's favorite. Why? Because she was a hard ass. While I appreciated it, my daughter felt she was 'mean'. I, on the other hand, understood her attempts to drive the kids, that she was looking for them to find their own 'spark'. Unfortunately, she was so burnt out after thirty years that she wanted nothing whatsoever to do with teaching any more. And who could blame her?!
So I am left back at square one. The State of Maine says I can have ANY Maine certified teacher - you would think it would be easier, or that I would be less particular.
Fortunately, I still have eight months to locate someone.
Saturday, November 30, 2013
Week 13 - Revision
They hadn't been approved for much. They had spent their weekend
afternoons daydreaming over glasses of wine and prose, and when the
numbers came back, the jarring reality was a hard strike to their
cheekbones. The real estate bubble had burst, and left them out in the
cold. The real estate agent assured them something lovely could be
found within their price range, but they weren't as convinced. They went
home, dejectedly climbing the three flights in the dark to their little
apartment. They knew they could find the home they all wanted, it was
just going to take some work - and time.
He poured over real estate books and weighed the options. FHA was a lower interest rate and smaller down payment, but included closing costs and limited their selection of properties to homes under ten acres. Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac were possibilities, but given the poor decision making done in the recent past, resulting bailouts and government conservatorship, he didn't particularly care to be involved with either of them. There was also a VA loan - one that was looking more and more attractive. No down payment, but it did include a VA Funding fee. More importantly - they offered a higher allowable debt-to-income ratio that might permit them to search for higher priced homes. They could afford it; they had worked out the numbers - they just needed a bank to support them. He might as well use his military background for some good.
She spent her time looking over real estate offerings, exceptions like easements and interests, water right and access points, property lines and encroachments. Were they willing to compromise on the size of the property? Was rehabbing an older home a possibility if the house had good bones? Their plan was to have this be their final move, so they wanted a home they would be comfortable in for years to come. They had each agreed on a 'non-negotiable' aspect - even their eleven year old daughter. For him - it had to have a decent garage where he could work out of the weather. For their daughter - it had to have a pool, or enough room to put in a pool comfortable. And for her - it absolutely had to have an upgraded kitchen. They all agreed that it needed to be a minimum of ten acres, and zoned to permit farm animals on a small scale. They had also agreed that there should be enough room in the house to allow for guests and a home office. And - it had to be within one hour of Bangor.
It hadn't seemed like their requests were too much at the time, but now she was beginning to wonder. Was there more they could compromise on?
The barriers had seemed to be the time to the city and the lot size. Could concessions be made on these issues? Maybe another 15 minutes wouldn't seem that bad if they found the perfect property? Could they survive with eight acres versus the ten they had previously decided upon? She wondered.
She plugged in the requirements again into her computer - but this time with the amendments. A slew of new properties popped onto the screen. "Huh! Look at that!" she muttered out loud. She began plugging away through the map of properties, eliminating ones with zero possibilities.
He brought his plan to her - the VA loan. They had wanted to go the traditional route through a local bank, but maybe this option would fit more to their plans and goals. They didn't require a down payment, so perhaps the money they had saved could, in part, be used to fix up an older home? He winced as he said it, unsure what her reaction would be. He was taken aback when her eyes lit up. She had found some homes on the outskirts of their time constraints that just might fit the bill, she said.
They sat down together and reviewed each property, the pros and cons of each, and narrowed the choices down to five. He made another appointment - this time with a mortgage broker - to talk about the possibility of a Veteran's Administration loan.
Maybe this was all going to work out after all.
He poured over real estate books and weighed the options. FHA was a lower interest rate and smaller down payment, but included closing costs and limited their selection of properties to homes under ten acres. Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac were possibilities, but given the poor decision making done in the recent past, resulting bailouts and government conservatorship, he didn't particularly care to be involved with either of them. There was also a VA loan - one that was looking more and more attractive. No down payment, but it did include a VA Funding fee. More importantly - they offered a higher allowable debt-to-income ratio that might permit them to search for higher priced homes. They could afford it; they had worked out the numbers - they just needed a bank to support them. He might as well use his military background for some good.
She spent her time looking over real estate offerings, exceptions like easements and interests, water right and access points, property lines and encroachments. Were they willing to compromise on the size of the property? Was rehabbing an older home a possibility if the house had good bones? Their plan was to have this be their final move, so they wanted a home they would be comfortable in for years to come. They had each agreed on a 'non-negotiable' aspect - even their eleven year old daughter. For him - it had to have a decent garage where he could work out of the weather. For their daughter - it had to have a pool, or enough room to put in a pool comfortable. And for her - it absolutely had to have an upgraded kitchen. They all agreed that it needed to be a minimum of ten acres, and zoned to permit farm animals on a small scale. They had also agreed that there should be enough room in the house to allow for guests and a home office. And - it had to be within one hour of Bangor.
It hadn't seemed like their requests were too much at the time, but now she was beginning to wonder. Was there more they could compromise on?
The barriers had seemed to be the time to the city and the lot size. Could concessions be made on these issues? Maybe another 15 minutes wouldn't seem that bad if they found the perfect property? Could they survive with eight acres versus the ten they had previously decided upon? She wondered.
She plugged in the requirements again into her computer - but this time with the amendments. A slew of new properties popped onto the screen. "Huh! Look at that!" she muttered out loud. She began plugging away through the map of properties, eliminating ones with zero possibilities.
He brought his plan to her - the VA loan. They had wanted to go the traditional route through a local bank, but maybe this option would fit more to their plans and goals. They didn't require a down payment, so perhaps the money they had saved could, in part, be used to fix up an older home? He winced as he said it, unsure what her reaction would be. He was taken aback when her eyes lit up. She had found some homes on the outskirts of their time constraints that just might fit the bill, she said.
They sat down together and reviewed each property, the pros and cons of each, and narrowed the choices down to five. He made another appointment - this time with a mortgage broker - to talk about the possibility of a Veteran's Administration loan.
Maybe this was all going to work out after all.
Week 12 - Book Intro
There are very few books that I have read (and I have read a LOT) that have evoked a physical reaction from me - both were written by Stephen King.
The Green Mile is the riveting story of Paul Edgcomb, the prison officer in charge of the death row cell block at the Cold Mountain Penitentiary in 1935. One of the inmates, John Coffey has been wrongfully convicted of the rape and murder of two young girls, and is awaiting execution on death row. During his period of confinement, Coffey reveals a secret ability to heal and to 'give back' illness.
Edgcomb is the epitome of the tragic hero. He is a man of integrity, a man with morals and sense of humanitarianism. He believes, in spite of their actions that brought them to this final place, that all of his charges should be treated humanely and with respect. Most of his peers on the block feel the same, but one - Percy Wetmore - is a sadistic and brutal guard. Wetmore seems to have it out for the emotionally weak inmate Eduard Delacroix, and the pet mouse he has adopted (Mr. Jingles). Afforded to the position via nepotism, Edgcomb and his staff cannot get rid of him. After intentionally botched execution that he was in charge of completing, John Coffey touches Wetmore, and 'gives back' a terrible illness into him, causing him to have a moment of crazy. He shoots another inmate to death and falls into a vegetative state for the rest of his life.
I never thought I'd be so pleased at the painful and surprising retribution received by any one individual, nor so moved to tears over a pet mouse.
During the subsequent investigation, Paul Edgcomb questions Coffey at length. Coffey says he can show him, but he will have to give something of himself - nothing was free. Edgcomb, only half believing, agrees. Coffey takes his hand, and shows Edgcomb everything - from what really happened to the young girls, right up through the reality of Percy Wetmore.
The side effect from the sharing is unexpected, and Paul Edgcomb isn't sure if it's punishment or not. The story concludes with Edgcomb in his senior years, evaluating his choices and his own mortality.
The Green Mile is akin to a modern day Dickens piece - superb characters rich in depth, intriguing plot lines, and an unexpected emotion evocation that is unparalleled by any other modern day author.
The Green Mile is the riveting story of Paul Edgcomb, the prison officer in charge of the death row cell block at the Cold Mountain Penitentiary in 1935. One of the inmates, John Coffey has been wrongfully convicted of the rape and murder of two young girls, and is awaiting execution on death row. During his period of confinement, Coffey reveals a secret ability to heal and to 'give back' illness.
Edgcomb is the epitome of the tragic hero. He is a man of integrity, a man with morals and sense of humanitarianism. He believes, in spite of their actions that brought them to this final place, that all of his charges should be treated humanely and with respect. Most of his peers on the block feel the same, but one - Percy Wetmore - is a sadistic and brutal guard. Wetmore seems to have it out for the emotionally weak inmate Eduard Delacroix, and the pet mouse he has adopted (Mr. Jingles). Afforded to the position via nepotism, Edgcomb and his staff cannot get rid of him. After intentionally botched execution that he was in charge of completing, John Coffey touches Wetmore, and 'gives back' a terrible illness into him, causing him to have a moment of crazy. He shoots another inmate to death and falls into a vegetative state for the rest of his life.
I never thought I'd be so pleased at the painful and surprising retribution received by any one individual, nor so moved to tears over a pet mouse.
During the subsequent investigation, Paul Edgcomb questions Coffey at length. Coffey says he can show him, but he will have to give something of himself - nothing was free. Edgcomb, only half believing, agrees. Coffey takes his hand, and shows Edgcomb everything - from what really happened to the young girls, right up through the reality of Percy Wetmore.
The side effect from the sharing is unexpected, and Paul Edgcomb isn't sure if it's punishment or not. The story concludes with Edgcomb in his senior years, evaluating his choices and his own mortality.
The Green Mile is akin to a modern day Dickens piece - superb characters rich in depth, intriguing plot lines, and an unexpected emotion evocation that is unparalleled by any other modern day author.
Week 13 - Appreciation/Depreciation
The book had instilled a sense of order and rationale to an otherwise unmoored and
disorienting existence. It was a handbook of sorts; eschewing a list of
the "Ten Concepts of Fearlessness", a list that made sense. I had
resisted the book initially - it couldn't possibly be taken seriously. A
rap artist and a strategist author? For real? But, a good friend had
recommended it. "Just take a look at it; it makes sense," he had said.
And it had.
His previous book, 'The 48 Rules of Power' had intrigued me. I'm fascinated with how individuals take control and gain power, when they obviously don't posses high intellect. I've met a number of high-powered businessmen and politicians, and I am completely bewildered half of the time. How in the world did this person get to this role?? They don't speak intelligently, let alone eloquently. They have no writing skills. They don't appear to be able to relate to anyone else. They are awkward, counterfeit and perplexing. And yet - they are in positions of power the average person could only dream of being.
'The 48 Rules of Power' provides a framework of standards - a guideline to garner position and power. Some of the rules are skills most people who have worked in a business environment have knowledge of (some, like me, the hard way). The first rule - "Never Outshine the Master" is one anyone who has ever had a boss will understand. Some are uncomfortable, such as rule number 11 - 'Keep people dependent on you' or rule number 15 - 'Crush your enemy totally'. Still other make sense, life skills articulated in a way that make them easily identifiable. 'Guard your reputation' and 'keep your hands clean' are a couple.
The newest addition, ''The 50th Law' expounds on these guidelines and includes and additional ten laws, the 'Ten Laws of Fearlessness'. Rap mogul Curtis Jackson (aka 50 Cent) teams up with the previously discussed author Robert Greene. Because of the street-wise vernacular of Jackson, these laws are more edgy and apathetic, and occasionally downright crass (Rule #3 - Turn Shit into Sugar).
I didn't want to like this book. A non-fiction author I liked and respected teaming up with a <gasp> rap star? Come on! Really?! Could you pander to the public a little more? I was mortified for him. And then I was curious. What had led him to this path? I decided to trust him - once. I wanted to find out what his reasoning was and why he selected this particular co-author/subject.
Curtis Jackson came from a tough background, but I wasn't privy to the details before now. (Disclaimer - I am not a fan of rap music in general; I am much more of an early jazz/blues fan and find rap music repugnant the majority of the time.) The idea behind this work is that there are two primary drives within human nature - fear and love. The authors make the theory behind each law relateable by providing history and examples from Jackson's life. Not only are some illegal, but some are immoral and downright scary. And yet, I was drawn to the person he has made himself into - an extension of his former self, but 'better', more self-assured, stronger and in control of his own destiny and environment. In spite of his history, not because of it.
This piece of work was an unexpected surprise. One paragraph in particular struck a vein with me, hard and deep. I hold it close, even today. Truthfully, can you ask any more from a single written work?
"Understand: the day you were born you became engaged in a struggle that continues to this day and will determine your success or failure in life. You are an individual, with ideas and skills that make you unique. But people are constantly trying to fit you into narrow categories that make you more predictable and easier to manage. They want to see you as shy or outgoing, sensitive or tough. If you succumb to this pressure, then you may gain some social acceptance, but you will lose the unconventional parts of your character that are the source of your uniqueness and power. You must resist this process at all costs, seeing people's neat and tidy judgements as a form of confinement. Your task is to retain or rediscover those aspects of your character that defy categorization, and to give them even greater play. Remaining unique, you will create something unique and inspire the kind of respect you would never receive from tepid conformity."
And it had.
His previous book, 'The 48 Rules of Power' had intrigued me. I'm fascinated with how individuals take control and gain power, when they obviously don't posses high intellect. I've met a number of high-powered businessmen and politicians, and I am completely bewildered half of the time. How in the world did this person get to this role?? They don't speak intelligently, let alone eloquently. They have no writing skills. They don't appear to be able to relate to anyone else. They are awkward, counterfeit and perplexing. And yet - they are in positions of power the average person could only dream of being.
'The 48 Rules of Power' provides a framework of standards - a guideline to garner position and power. Some of the rules are skills most people who have worked in a business environment have knowledge of (some, like me, the hard way). The first rule - "Never Outshine the Master" is one anyone who has ever had a boss will understand. Some are uncomfortable, such as rule number 11 - 'Keep people dependent on you' or rule number 15 - 'Crush your enemy totally'. Still other make sense, life skills articulated in a way that make them easily identifiable. 'Guard your reputation' and 'keep your hands clean' are a couple.
The newest addition, ''The 50th Law' expounds on these guidelines and includes and additional ten laws, the 'Ten Laws of Fearlessness'. Rap mogul Curtis Jackson (aka 50 Cent) teams up with the previously discussed author Robert Greene. Because of the street-wise vernacular of Jackson, these laws are more edgy and apathetic, and occasionally downright crass (Rule #3 - Turn Shit into Sugar).
I didn't want to like this book. A non-fiction author I liked and respected teaming up with a <gasp> rap star? Come on! Really?! Could you pander to the public a little more? I was mortified for him. And then I was curious. What had led him to this path? I decided to trust him - once. I wanted to find out what his reasoning was and why he selected this particular co-author/subject.
Curtis Jackson came from a tough background, but I wasn't privy to the details before now. (Disclaimer - I am not a fan of rap music in general; I am much more of an early jazz/blues fan and find rap music repugnant the majority of the time.) The idea behind this work is that there are two primary drives within human nature - fear and love. The authors make the theory behind each law relateable by providing history and examples from Jackson's life. Not only are some illegal, but some are immoral and downright scary. And yet, I was drawn to the person he has made himself into - an extension of his former self, but 'better', more self-assured, stronger and in control of his own destiny and environment. In spite of his history, not because of it.
This piece of work was an unexpected surprise. One paragraph in particular struck a vein with me, hard and deep. I hold it close, even today. Truthfully, can you ask any more from a single written work?
"Understand: the day you were born you became engaged in a struggle that continues to this day and will determine your success or failure in life. You are an individual, with ideas and skills that make you unique. But people are constantly trying to fit you into narrow categories that make you more predictable and easier to manage. They want to see you as shy or outgoing, sensitive or tough. If you succumb to this pressure, then you may gain some social acceptance, but you will lose the unconventional parts of your character that are the source of your uniqueness and power. You must resist this process at all costs, seeing people's neat and tidy judgements as a form of confinement. Your task is to retain or rediscover those aspects of your character that defy categorization, and to give them even greater play. Remaining unique, you will create something unique and inspire the kind of respect you would never receive from tepid conformity."
Week 11 - All the Fun of Expertise With Less Filling
Does anyone value their property anymore? There are cemeteries of properties after property looking transient and ramshackle. Overgrown shrubbery, cadaverous vehicles, broken down washing machines on their decks, scorned vegetable gardens and sparse or nonexistent landscaping.
They drove further up the road. Aware of fast moving cars approaching from behind, they pulled off to the shoulder and dismally peer at yet another listing. While the listing wasn't a blatant lie, someone had obviously invested a significant portion of inheritance on professional photography. The woman was weary, and shook her head sadly as she scrutinized the house. She'd had high hopes for this one, and had enough for today.
They hadn't been approved for much. They had spent their weekend afternoons daydreaming over glasses of wine and prose, and when the numbers came back, the jarring reality was a hard strike to their cheekbones. The real estate bubble had burst, and left them out in the cold. The real estate agent assured them something lovely could be found within their price range, but they weren't as convinced. They went home, dejectedly climbing the three flights in the dark to their little apartment. They knew they could find the home they all wanted, it was just going to take some work - and time.
He poured over real estate books and weighed the options. FHA was a lower interest rate and smaller down payment, but included closing costs and limited their selection of properties to homes under ten acres. Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac were possibilities, but given the poor decision making done in the recent past, resulting bailouts and government conservatorship, he didn't particularly care to be involved with either of them. There was also a VA loan - one that was looking more and more attractive. No down payment, but it did include a VA Funding fee. More importantly - they offered a higher allowable debt-to-income ratio that might permit them to search for higher priced homes. They could afford it; they had worked out the numbers - they just needed a bank to support them. He might as well use his military background for some good.
She spent her time looking over real estate offerings, exceptions like easements and interests, water right and access points, property lines and encroachments. Were they willing to compromise on the size of the property? Was rehabbing an older home a possibility if the house had good bones? Their plan was to have this be their final move, so they wanted a home they would be comfortable in for years to come. They had each agreed on a 'non-negotiable' aspect - even their eleven year old daughter. For him - it had to have a decent garage where he could work out of the weather. For their daughter - it had to have a pool, or enough room to put in a pool comfortable. And for her - it absolutely had to have an upgraded kitchen. They all agreed that it needed to be a minimum of ten acres, and zoned to permit farm animals on a small scale. They had also agreed that there should be enough room in the house to allow for guests and a home office. And - it had to be within one hour of Bangor.
It hadn't seemed like their requests were too much at the time, but now she was beginning to wonder. Was there more they could compromise on?
The barriers had seemed to be the time to the city and the lot size. Could concessions be made on these issues? Maybe another 15 minutes wouldn't seem that bad if they found the perfect property? Could they survive with eight acres versus the ten they had previously decided upon? She wondered.
She plugged in the requirements again into her computer - but this time with the amendments. A slew of new properties popped onto the screen. "Huh! Look at that!" she muttered out loud. She began plugging away through the map of properties, eliminating ones with zero possibilities.
He brought his plan to her - the VA loan. They had wanted to go the traditional route through a local bank, but maybe this option would fit more to their plans and goals. They didn't require a down payment, so perhaps the money they had saved could, in part, be used to fix up an older home? He winced as he said it, unsure what her reaction would be. He was taken aback when her eyes lit up. She had found some homes on the outskirts of their time constraints that just might fit the bill, she said.
They sat down together and reviewed each property, the pros and cons of each, and narrowed the choices down to five. He made another appointment - this time with a mortgage broker - to talk about the possibility of a Veteran's Administration loan.
Maybe this was all going to work out after all.
They drove further up the road. Aware of fast moving cars approaching from behind, they pulled off to the shoulder and dismally peer at yet another listing. While the listing wasn't a blatant lie, someone had obviously invested a significant portion of inheritance on professional photography. The woman was weary, and shook her head sadly as she scrutinized the house. She'd had high hopes for this one, and had enough for today.
They hadn't been approved for much. They had spent their weekend afternoons daydreaming over glasses of wine and prose, and when the numbers came back, the jarring reality was a hard strike to their cheekbones. The real estate bubble had burst, and left them out in the cold. The real estate agent assured them something lovely could be found within their price range, but they weren't as convinced. They went home, dejectedly climbing the three flights in the dark to their little apartment. They knew they could find the home they all wanted, it was just going to take some work - and time.
He poured over real estate books and weighed the options. FHA was a lower interest rate and smaller down payment, but included closing costs and limited their selection of properties to homes under ten acres. Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac were possibilities, but given the poor decision making done in the recent past, resulting bailouts and government conservatorship, he didn't particularly care to be involved with either of them. There was also a VA loan - one that was looking more and more attractive. No down payment, but it did include a VA Funding fee. More importantly - they offered a higher allowable debt-to-income ratio that might permit them to search for higher priced homes. They could afford it; they had worked out the numbers - they just needed a bank to support them. He might as well use his military background for some good.
She spent her time looking over real estate offerings, exceptions like easements and interests, water right and access points, property lines and encroachments. Were they willing to compromise on the size of the property? Was rehabbing an older home a possibility if the house had good bones? Their plan was to have this be their final move, so they wanted a home they would be comfortable in for years to come. They had each agreed on a 'non-negotiable' aspect - even their eleven year old daughter. For him - it had to have a decent garage where he could work out of the weather. For their daughter - it had to have a pool, or enough room to put in a pool comfortable. And for her - it absolutely had to have an upgraded kitchen. They all agreed that it needed to be a minimum of ten acres, and zoned to permit farm animals on a small scale. They had also agreed that there should be enough room in the house to allow for guests and a home office. And - it had to be within one hour of Bangor.
It hadn't seemed like their requests were too much at the time, but now she was beginning to wonder. Was there more they could compromise on?
The barriers had seemed to be the time to the city and the lot size. Could concessions be made on these issues? Maybe another 15 minutes wouldn't seem that bad if they found the perfect property? Could they survive with eight acres versus the ten they had previously decided upon? She wondered.
She plugged in the requirements again into her computer - but this time with the amendments. A slew of new properties popped onto the screen. "Huh! Look at that!" she muttered out loud. She began plugging away through the map of properties, eliminating ones with zero possibilities.
He brought his plan to her - the VA loan. They had wanted to go the traditional route through a local bank, but maybe this option would fit more to their plans and goals. They didn't require a down payment, so perhaps the money they had saved could, in part, be used to fix up an older home? He winced as he said it, unsure what her reaction would be. He was taken aback when her eyes lit up. She had found some homes on the outskirts of their time constraints that just might fit the bill, she said.
They sat down together and reviewed each property, the pros and cons of each, and narrowed the choices down to five. He made another appointment - this time with a mortgage broker - to talk about the possibility of a Veteran's Administration loan.
Maybe this was all going to work out after all.
Saturday, November 2, 2013
Week 10 - Self-Defense is Too Violent?
A friend's husband is a police officer and a martial arts instructor in Veazie. He offered a free, anti-bullying class for kids - all you had to do was sign up. I've been looking into getting my 'tween' daughter some type of self-defnse training, so I signed her up, albeit against her will. (She doesn't like 'new' things and she's kind of lazy. Okay, a lot lazy.)
She loved the class, and didn't want to leave after 2 1/2 hours.
He teaches Krav-Maga, a self-defense system developed for the Israeli military. It consists of a wide combination of techniques culled from boxing, Muay Thai, Judo, wrestling, grappling and others. It focuses on realistic fight training - incidents you would see in the real-world, when you are in serious bodily danger. Just the sort of training every parent wishes for their child.
We spoke briefly after class about his desire to expand, and I mentioned he should align with the University Recreation Center and offer classes there. He said he had tried - but the administration, in all their nobility, felt it was "too violent" to offer to college students.
Um, what?
Tai Kwon Do on Tuesdays and Thursdays is fine. Combat Boot Camp class on Sunday morning - great. But actual, real-world defensive maneuvers that might reduce the number of rapes and assaults on a college campus? Noooo sir, we don't want that overt violence around here.
Unless you keep your child in a padded cell for eternity, at some point they will come into contact with an unsavory character. Shouldn't they know how to appropriately deal with them? UMaine says no. Classes at the Rec Center should be light, fun and help you keep that six-pack or bikini body (it will be Spring soon enough!) No one wants to have a serious discussion about 'bodily protection' or 'rape prevention' or other scary topics, let alone offer a class that puts it front and center, and perhaps empowers students.
Nationally, 17% of college students report having experienced violence withing the previous year. That's only reported cases. While it may not seem like a high number, 17% of students at the University of Maine equates to slightly over 1,700 students. Seventeen hundred students. Surely a class once or twice a week that might reduce those numbers might be deemed valuable?
UMaine is like the Kennedy family - they don't air their dirty laundry until it becomes public fodder. They project a regal image of light and airy - great education, fun place to live. None of the dark discourse - parents wouldn't want to pay $27,000 a year to send their children somewhere where there might be <gasp> violence!
Until there is a publicized incidence of domestic violence, rape or other vicious attack that makes it newsworthy - administration will play ostrich. Then, when reporters are calling and focus must be redirected, will they define a strategic plan to implement a ten year plan to address the issues - one that will include a weekly self-defense offering at the Rec Center.
She loved the class, and didn't want to leave after 2 1/2 hours.
He teaches Krav-Maga, a self-defense system developed for the Israeli military. It consists of a wide combination of techniques culled from boxing, Muay Thai, Judo, wrestling, grappling and others. It focuses on realistic fight training - incidents you would see in the real-world, when you are in serious bodily danger. Just the sort of training every parent wishes for their child.
We spoke briefly after class about his desire to expand, and I mentioned he should align with the University Recreation Center and offer classes there. He said he had tried - but the administration, in all their nobility, felt it was "too violent" to offer to college students.
Um, what?
Tai Kwon Do on Tuesdays and Thursdays is fine. Combat Boot Camp class on Sunday morning - great. But actual, real-world defensive maneuvers that might reduce the number of rapes and assaults on a college campus? Noooo sir, we don't want that overt violence around here.
Unless you keep your child in a padded cell for eternity, at some point they will come into contact with an unsavory character. Shouldn't they know how to appropriately deal with them? UMaine says no. Classes at the Rec Center should be light, fun and help you keep that six-pack or bikini body (it will be Spring soon enough!) No one wants to have a serious discussion about 'bodily protection' or 'rape prevention' or other scary topics, let alone offer a class that puts it front and center, and perhaps empowers students.
Nationally, 17% of college students report having experienced violence withing the previous year. That's only reported cases. While it may not seem like a high number, 17% of students at the University of Maine equates to slightly over 1,700 students. Seventeen hundred students. Surely a class once or twice a week that might reduce those numbers might be deemed valuable?
UMaine is like the Kennedy family - they don't air their dirty laundry until it becomes public fodder. They project a regal image of light and airy - great education, fun place to live. None of the dark discourse - parents wouldn't want to pay $27,000 a year to send their children somewhere where there might be <gasp> violence!
Until there is a publicized incidence of domestic violence, rape or other vicious attack that makes it newsworthy - administration will play ostrich. Then, when reporters are calling and focus must be redirected, will they define a strategic plan to implement a ten year plan to address the issues - one that will include a weekly self-defense offering at the Rec Center.
Week 9 - Kismet
I have been busily and desperately searching for work. Again.
I have been out of work since February of 2011. After my divorce, I was losing my house. In a reckless and scandalous move, I quit my job in an effort to save it. I had another job lined up in the longer term but the only way I could access my retirement fund was to leave my job. So I did. I ended up not only losing my retirement, but the house as well.
Some lessons are very hard-learned.
I've been going back to school. Partly to achieve the degree, but also partly to narrow my focus. There are so many things I enjoy doing that it's been hard to 'choose' a path. I fell into IT a long time ago and I've always hated it. I have an opportunity now to choose something I really want to do every day, but it's an awful lot of pressure!
I thought it was culinary (I really love cooking and I'm good at it), but after a year I discovered that a) Culinary school will kill your love of cooking within 2 months; and b) cooks in Maine don't make squat for money.
Scratch Culinary.
I moved on to business. I had started a small business cooking a couple of years ago. Just a part time business - the kind many moms and grandmothers do in their spare time 'in the County'. I learned another valuable lesson - I despise accounting. So, Business as a major is kaput too.
There have been aspects of each (and other subjects) that I thoroughly enjoy. I love cooking - on my own terms, and in my own way. I don't always adhere to a recipe, and sometimes - <gasp> - I don't measure. In business, I love helping people, but not the tediousness of bookkeeping and accounting. I'm a creative personality, an artist of sorts, and if I don't have that outlet...if my hands are tied (literally or figuratively)...I choke in the realest sense of the word.
One arena I have always become lost in for hours has been my reading and writing. This past month, in a single week - three different people suggested I find a way to write for a living. I hadn't really considered it before now. After all, writing, as a profession, is not a 'serious' career. Writing is akin to starving actors - it's what you do while you're waiting tables, waiting for the dream to take it's last breaths.
Then I thought, what do I have to lose? I figure it's kismet, right?
I thought more and more about it, in spite of myself. What would happen if I took a shot at it? I've always had this secret dream tucked away in the back of my heart and head. You know the one - that dusty, leather-bound 'Great American Novelist' dream shared by anyone who's read Kerouac or Fitzgerald. Could I afford to try, to possibly learn that I'm not adept or skilled enough to earn a living at writing? Not in the financial sense, but in the most elemental and core facet of my being.
In most aspects of my life, I'm a seemingly moderate risk-taker. But truth be told - I'm a closet over-analyzer. I research and investigate, take notes, interview and interpret, take notes, evaluate and scrutinize before making any kind of final determination. My significant other makes jokes about how he wishes I would hurry up and write my novel already - we could use the money, and we both want to move out of the city. Which, he reminds me, I could easily do with a writing job.
Subtlety is not his forte.
So, I set about researching (my standard M.O.) on the internet. How would I even begin? What are my chances of success? Is it worth it?
What if I spent the next year writing, submitting, getting rejected and submitting some more? I would be no worse off than I am now financially. I'd be dejected and morose probably. I'm pretty stubborn, for an Irishwoman even, so I probably wouldn't give up easily. Maybe I'd turn into one of those prolific writers who's not recognized for their genius until long after they've left this Earth.
Maybe I'd just fade into the dust and my writing would blanch into obscurity on the Net, hopefully to be found in some graphically embarassing way for my grandchildren.
I worry that I'm not good enough. Another lesson hard-learned at this point could potentially be catastrophic. Writing is personal. Rejection is business. How do the two enmesh comfortably? I'm guessing this is why so many writers are melancholy and pessimistic. I anguish at the thought of being forced to tell my family I have failed.
And then I think - but...perhaps.....I won't fail. I have just as good a chance as anyone out there. In fact, I lament the writing of others daily - like the South Portland-Cape Elizabeth Sentry's article on the next generation of students, captioned (front page) "Future collegions".
Surely I can do better.
So I've done my diligence and signed up for multiple freelance sites initially. I'll catch up on my writing class. I'll write daily - or at least try. I'll submit proposals often. Maybe someone will even take me up on one of them. Perhaps I'll even make a little money and buy that farm we looked at earlier today.
I wonder if Jack Kerouac wondered about kismet?
I have been out of work since February of 2011. After my divorce, I was losing my house. In a reckless and scandalous move, I quit my job in an effort to save it. I had another job lined up in the longer term but the only way I could access my retirement fund was to leave my job. So I did. I ended up not only losing my retirement, but the house as well.
Some lessons are very hard-learned.
I've been going back to school. Partly to achieve the degree, but also partly to narrow my focus. There are so many things I enjoy doing that it's been hard to 'choose' a path. I fell into IT a long time ago and I've always hated it. I have an opportunity now to choose something I really want to do every day, but it's an awful lot of pressure!
I thought it was culinary (I really love cooking and I'm good at it), but after a year I discovered that a) Culinary school will kill your love of cooking within 2 months; and b) cooks in Maine don't make squat for money.
Scratch Culinary.
I moved on to business. I had started a small business cooking a couple of years ago. Just a part time business - the kind many moms and grandmothers do in their spare time 'in the County'. I learned another valuable lesson - I despise accounting. So, Business as a major is kaput too.
There have been aspects of each (and other subjects) that I thoroughly enjoy. I love cooking - on my own terms, and in my own way. I don't always adhere to a recipe, and sometimes - <gasp> - I don't measure. In business, I love helping people, but not the tediousness of bookkeeping and accounting. I'm a creative personality, an artist of sorts, and if I don't have that outlet...if my hands are tied (literally or figuratively)...I choke in the realest sense of the word.
One arena I have always become lost in for hours has been my reading and writing. This past month, in a single week - three different people suggested I find a way to write for a living. I hadn't really considered it before now. After all, writing, as a profession, is not a 'serious' career. Writing is akin to starving actors - it's what you do while you're waiting tables, waiting for the dream to take it's last breaths.
Then I thought, what do I have to lose? I figure it's kismet, right?
I thought more and more about it, in spite of myself. What would happen if I took a shot at it? I've always had this secret dream tucked away in the back of my heart and head. You know the one - that dusty, leather-bound 'Great American Novelist' dream shared by anyone who's read Kerouac or Fitzgerald. Could I afford to try, to possibly learn that I'm not adept or skilled enough to earn a living at writing? Not in the financial sense, but in the most elemental and core facet of my being.
In most aspects of my life, I'm a seemingly moderate risk-taker. But truth be told - I'm a closet over-analyzer. I research and investigate, take notes, interview and interpret, take notes, evaluate and scrutinize before making any kind of final determination. My significant other makes jokes about how he wishes I would hurry up and write my novel already - we could use the money, and we both want to move out of the city. Which, he reminds me, I could easily do with a writing job.
Subtlety is not his forte.
So, I set about researching (my standard M.O.) on the internet. How would I even begin? What are my chances of success? Is it worth it?
What if I spent the next year writing, submitting, getting rejected and submitting some more? I would be no worse off than I am now financially. I'd be dejected and morose probably. I'm pretty stubborn, for an Irishwoman even, so I probably wouldn't give up easily. Maybe I'd turn into one of those prolific writers who's not recognized for their genius until long after they've left this Earth.
Maybe I'd just fade into the dust and my writing would blanch into obscurity on the Net, hopefully to be found in some graphically embarassing way for my grandchildren.
I worry that I'm not good enough. Another lesson hard-learned at this point could potentially be catastrophic. Writing is personal. Rejection is business. How do the two enmesh comfortably? I'm guessing this is why so many writers are melancholy and pessimistic. I anguish at the thought of being forced to tell my family I have failed.
And then I think - but...perhaps.....I won't fail. I have just as good a chance as anyone out there. In fact, I lament the writing of others daily - like the South Portland-Cape Elizabeth Sentry's article on the next generation of students, captioned (front page) "Future collegions".
Surely I can do better.
So I've done my diligence and signed up for multiple freelance sites initially. I'll catch up on my writing class. I'll write daily - or at least try. I'll submit proposals often. Maybe someone will even take me up on one of them. Perhaps I'll even make a little money and buy that farm we looked at earlier today.
I wonder if Jack Kerouac wondered about kismet?
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
I love food! - Week 8
I love food.
Not always to eat it and sometimes not even the making of it (it's a myth that chef's are too picky to eat food made by others. Actually, they are particular when it comes to dining out - they expect a certain level of professionalism, and know how much product costs.)
I love the alchemy of it - aggregating compounds, swirling them together in my lab of blue gas flames, polished steel and glass containers...the hum and whirl of equipment, the resulting bouquet of aromas titillating the noses and piquing the curiosity of passers-by.
I am enamored by the tactile sensation - an almost erotic manipulation of food in its rudimentary stages, stroking, shaping, sometimes forcefully converging it into something completely unconventional and delectable. I am one of those chefs who, while my hands are exceptionally clean, never wears gloves (too constricting - I can't feel my medium).
Throughout my childhood, I always paid close attention to details. I noticed when visiting my grandparents that the room everyone congregated in was the kitchen. Everyone felt comfortable, at ease in there - like all predilection of formal decorum wasn't permitted. And in truth - it wasn't. When my grandmother cooked - everyone participated, and everyone stayed to talk, joke and just be with each other. The living room was where folks went when they were weary of each other, and needed a break before going to bed. Not the kitchen! The kitchen was warmth and excitement, fun and sharing, and genuine caring.
I observed the same behaviors, sights and sounds when I stayed with friends. The foods and smells changed, sometimes even the language. But always the kitchen was the heart and soul of the home. I watched as mothers and fathers combined foods and spices I'd never seen or heard of into magnificent arrangements. Family and friends gathered round, everyone together, laughing, smiling, truly loving each other.
I was eight, and quite convinced that this was how rich people lived.
As I grew older, I was convinced that I could be an amazing chef. I made up my mind, hiked up my undergarments and went to culinary school. I remember walking into the kitchen for the first time. I was given a tour by one of the department heads. A senior class was in full swing, preparing to feed a small crowd in the adjacent cafe. I was fascinated and in love! The smells, the sounds, the movements of the symphony of line cooks and chefs... "Time, please!" Five minutes out, Chef! "Where's my asparagus John?!" Coming to you now, Chef! The recognizable aroma of my favorite creme brulee and warm honey yeast rolls fresh from the oven. Everyone knew their role, and moved in tandem - a single body working to make this elaborate, decadent artwork.
I showed up to my first classes uniformed, shiny faced, well-stocked with gear and thoroughly excited. By week six, I was so utterly disgusted and disenchanted I wasn't sure I would finish the semester, let alone another year and a half. I sat crying in the deans office, unsure how to proceed. It wasn't the cooking - I could do that with my hands tied. It was the limitations, the lack of (what I considered) to be important expectations. How could you begin to test on consistent Brunoise cut, when you had not adequately taught your students to sharpen and care for their knives? How can you teach sanitation and food safety, when it's not enforced in the actual kitchen? I wanted to soar, to try different techniques and experiment with alternatives. They wanted me to follow the recipe exactly and clean up after other students who were so caught up with their plating technique they didn't have time to actually finish cooking their chicken breast, let alone clean their work station. Teamwork was non-existent, the students (most were 18 years old), were entitled and cliquey, and more than a few of us decided not to return after completing only one year.
I left culinary school disillusioned and hating to cook.
It took almost a year to find my groove again. Slowly, after a few months of only necessity cooking, I began to bake again. Cookies for my daughter. A special birthday dessert for my husband. A friend asked me to make her a cake, and I actually enjoyed it. Then I started playing around with some recipes and created some of my own - and they were great!
I learned something very important: you can't cage creativity. Trust yourself - if it works for you, if it flows - let it be.
That was the part of those wonderful evenings with family and friends from my youth, that had escaped me. It flowed. It was natural, inspiring, and easy. But then, it wasn't really the food after all.
Not always to eat it and sometimes not even the making of it (it's a myth that chef's are too picky to eat food made by others. Actually, they are particular when it comes to dining out - they expect a certain level of professionalism, and know how much product costs.)
I love the alchemy of it - aggregating compounds, swirling them together in my lab of blue gas flames, polished steel and glass containers...the hum and whirl of equipment, the resulting bouquet of aromas titillating the noses and piquing the curiosity of passers-by.
I am enamored by the tactile sensation - an almost erotic manipulation of food in its rudimentary stages, stroking, shaping, sometimes forcefully converging it into something completely unconventional and delectable. I am one of those chefs who, while my hands are exceptionally clean, never wears gloves (too constricting - I can't feel my medium).
Throughout my childhood, I always paid close attention to details. I noticed when visiting my grandparents that the room everyone congregated in was the kitchen. Everyone felt comfortable, at ease in there - like all predilection of formal decorum wasn't permitted. And in truth - it wasn't. When my grandmother cooked - everyone participated, and everyone stayed to talk, joke and just be with each other. The living room was where folks went when they were weary of each other, and needed a break before going to bed. Not the kitchen! The kitchen was warmth and excitement, fun and sharing, and genuine caring.
I observed the same behaviors, sights and sounds when I stayed with friends. The foods and smells changed, sometimes even the language. But always the kitchen was the heart and soul of the home. I watched as mothers and fathers combined foods and spices I'd never seen or heard of into magnificent arrangements. Family and friends gathered round, everyone together, laughing, smiling, truly loving each other.
I was eight, and quite convinced that this was how rich people lived.
As I grew older, I was convinced that I could be an amazing chef. I made up my mind, hiked up my undergarments and went to culinary school. I remember walking into the kitchen for the first time. I was given a tour by one of the department heads. A senior class was in full swing, preparing to feed a small crowd in the adjacent cafe. I was fascinated and in love! The smells, the sounds, the movements of the symphony of line cooks and chefs... "Time, please!" Five minutes out, Chef! "Where's my asparagus John?!" Coming to you now, Chef! The recognizable aroma of my favorite creme brulee and warm honey yeast rolls fresh from the oven. Everyone knew their role, and moved in tandem - a single body working to make this elaborate, decadent artwork.
I showed up to my first classes uniformed, shiny faced, well-stocked with gear and thoroughly excited. By week six, I was so utterly disgusted and disenchanted I wasn't sure I would finish the semester, let alone another year and a half. I sat crying in the deans office, unsure how to proceed. It wasn't the cooking - I could do that with my hands tied. It was the limitations, the lack of (what I considered) to be important expectations. How could you begin to test on consistent Brunoise cut, when you had not adequately taught your students to sharpen and care for their knives? How can you teach sanitation and food safety, when it's not enforced in the actual kitchen? I wanted to soar, to try different techniques and experiment with alternatives. They wanted me to follow the recipe exactly and clean up after other students who were so caught up with their plating technique they didn't have time to actually finish cooking their chicken breast, let alone clean their work station. Teamwork was non-existent, the students (most were 18 years old), were entitled and cliquey, and more than a few of us decided not to return after completing only one year.
I left culinary school disillusioned and hating to cook.
It took almost a year to find my groove again. Slowly, after a few months of only necessity cooking, I began to bake again. Cookies for my daughter. A special birthday dessert for my husband. A friend asked me to make her a cake, and I actually enjoyed it. Then I started playing around with some recipes and created some of my own - and they were great!
I learned something very important: you can't cage creativity. Trust yourself - if it works for you, if it flows - let it be.
That was the part of those wonderful evenings with family and friends from my youth, that had escaped me. It flowed. It was natural, inspiring, and easy. But then, it wasn't really the food after all.
Sunday, October 13, 2013
Profile of M - Week 7, Revision 1
She flips back her ebony hair and yawns, looking forlornly at her
mother. She is obviously weary. Her sad eyes glance at yet another tuft
of hair dance across the floor.
She hasn't been here her whole life - they had adopted her when she was six and being put back into the system. It had been her last chance, at some level she had known that. She was getting older, and even she understood that it was more difficult to get adopted as you aged. But, she was happy to be with her new family, even if the current situation was...uncomfortable.
M. had been born into a family of seven. Her birth was solely to increase the amount of income coming in to the family - nothing more. On a sticky summer's day, it had been determined that her home was unfit - and a handful of people from the county took her away. While she was happy to be clean, warm and fed, she knew that her freedom was at the whim of strangers, and it terrified her.
Not long afterward, she had been placed in a foster home in Bangor. The older woman lived alone, and in a moment of melancholy had decided this is what she needed - some youth and vigor to keep her grounded and feeling loved. At first, things were great. M. was clean and well fed, and the center of attention. As the days progressed, she discovered that her new guardian liked to drink and gamble. A lot. She began coming home very late, very broke and very, very stumbly. She would 'forget' to feed M. and more frequently than not, didn't have money left to buy food. Eventually, she was gone for days at a time. M. was brokenhearted. At four years old, she learned how to sneak food from the cats and the garbage. The old woman came and went, and M. was merely furniture, subsisting on scraps she scavenged from throughout the house.
One sunny August afternoon, she had been playing alone in the back yard. A strange man came over - he was much bigger than her, and it was unnerving. She panicked when he came close and reached over to touch her hair. She had looked furtively toward the house - no mom, no escape. M. spun her head around and did the only thing she could think of - she chomped as hard as she could on his nicotine-stained fingers. The man yelled and hollered, and the old woman packed her up and shipped her off without so much as a goodbye hug.
Four years seemed like a lifetime ago now. M. had been adopted by a wonderful family who took very good care of her and truly loved her. She had her own bed, clothes and toys; she played, ate and snuggled every day.
And yet...every year, beginning in August, she begins to itch and lose her hair. A skin condition, the doctor had said, caused by nerves - an unconscious remnant of her history. None of the sprays or special shampoos seems to help much. Tufts of hair float across the wood floor and stick to the rug in spite of daily vacuuming. She is scratching again, but M. can't help herself - it's constant and maddening. Her mom smiles understandingly and pats her shoulder. Another dose of Benadryl and just a few more weeks, and the itch will go away til next year.
She hasn't been here her whole life - they had adopted her when she was six and being put back into the system. It had been her last chance, at some level she had known that. She was getting older, and even she understood that it was more difficult to get adopted as you aged. But, she was happy to be with her new family, even if the current situation was...uncomfortable.
M. had been born into a family of seven. Her birth was solely to increase the amount of income coming in to the family - nothing more. On a sticky summer's day, it had been determined that her home was unfit - and a handful of people from the county took her away. While she was happy to be clean, warm and fed, she knew that her freedom was at the whim of strangers, and it terrified her.
Not long afterward, she had been placed in a foster home in Bangor. The older woman lived alone, and in a moment of melancholy had decided this is what she needed - some youth and vigor to keep her grounded and feeling loved. At first, things were great. M. was clean and well fed, and the center of attention. As the days progressed, she discovered that her new guardian liked to drink and gamble. A lot. She began coming home very late, very broke and very, very stumbly. She would 'forget' to feed M. and more frequently than not, didn't have money left to buy food. Eventually, she was gone for days at a time. M. was brokenhearted. At four years old, she learned how to sneak food from the cats and the garbage. The old woman came and went, and M. was merely furniture, subsisting on scraps she scavenged from throughout the house.
One sunny August afternoon, she had been playing alone in the back yard. A strange man came over - he was much bigger than her, and it was unnerving. She panicked when he came close and reached over to touch her hair. She had looked furtively toward the house - no mom, no escape. M. spun her head around and did the only thing she could think of - she chomped as hard as she could on his nicotine-stained fingers. The man yelled and hollered, and the old woman packed her up and shipped her off without so much as a goodbye hug.
Four years seemed like a lifetime ago now. M. had been adopted by a wonderful family who took very good care of her and truly loved her. She had her own bed, clothes and toys; she played, ate and snuggled every day.
And yet...every year, beginning in August, she begins to itch and lose her hair. A skin condition, the doctor had said, caused by nerves - an unconscious remnant of her history. None of the sprays or special shampoos seems to help much. Tufts of hair float across the wood floor and stick to the rug in spite of daily vacuuming. She is scratching again, but M. can't help herself - it's constant and maddening. Her mom smiles understandingly and pats her shoulder. Another dose of Benadryl and just a few more weeks, and the itch will go away til next year.
The New Era of Counter Culture - Week 7
They bear the vestments of a well-aged crusade against tyranny - white face, angled black mustache and goatee, rouged cheeks, with arched brows and hollow eyes. The face of one who was made a representative of a revolutionary movement; one that ultimately failed. The face of everyone, and of no one. The face of Anonymous.
Anonymous has modernized, reinvented and marketed the term "hacktivist'. First appearing markedly in 2003, Anonymous began as an internet gathering of disenfranchised hackers and bored online community members. Since then, Anonymous has not only grown in depth and breadth, but also in the amount of fear and trepidation it strikes into the heart of corporations, governments and private organizations around the globe.
Gabriella Coleman, Wolfe Chair in Scientific and Technological Literacy at McGill University, has become a well-known Anonymous expert. Trained as an anthropologist, she researches, writes, and teaches on hackers and digital activism. In her recent series on Internet Governance, Coleman provides an in-depth analysis of Anonymous.
"Anonymous has been adept at magnifying issues, boosting existing — usually oppositional — movements and converting amorphous discontent into a tangible form, " says Coleman. "They have been remarkably effective, despite lacking the human and financial resources to engage in long term strategic thinking or planning."
Activism as a whole is certainly not a new concept. Nor is 'extreme activism'. The 1960's began a breakdown of long-held values and norms within the younger generation. With the founding of the Students for a Democratic Society, sit-ins at Berkeley and the Free Speech Movement also came anti-war movements, Black Activism, burgeoning sexuality, Women's Rights, bombings, drugs, Hippies and Woodstock.
Counterculture itself is defined as a way of life and set of attitudes opposed to the prevailing social norm. It is the next generation, pushing and clawing through the commonplace and accepted, demanding it's voice, demanding change.
Anonymous gives voice to the unspoken and muted. It not only amplifies the cries of the counterculture - it is the counterculture. The modern day Loki - you're never really sure of they are the hero, or the anti-hero, but always a trickster.
Anonymous is well-known for having multiple projects rolling concurrently. Knows as 'Ops', they been well-known for Ops for the 'Lulz' (laughs) - coordinated pranks, just for the fun of it, but also target hotbed political and religious issues and cases involving attacks on women and children.
In many cases, not only have they drawn well-needed attention to an issue, but in some cases affected its outcome. Early this year, Anonymous took up the mantle for Rehtaeh Pearsons of Halifax. The seventeen year old girl had been drinking at a party in 2011 and reportedly gang-raped by four classmates who took pictures and posted them online. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police investigated the crime, but said there wasn't enough evidence to charge the boys.
For the next two years she was bullied, tormented and harassed to the point of her family being forced to move from their home. After years of torture, Rehtaeh hung herself in April of this year.
Anonymous was outraged, and released a statement announcing they had identified the four rapists. They demanded the Nova Scotia Police reopen the case or they would make the names public.
"Our demands are simple: We want the [Nova Scotia Royal Canadian Mounted Police] to take immediate legal action against the individuals in question. We encourage you to act fast. If we were able to locate these boys within 2 hours, it will not be long before someone else finds them," the statement read. With their trademark credo: "We are Anonymous. We are legion. We do not forgive. We do not forget. Expect us.”
On April 12, the RCMP announced the case was being reopened in light of "new and credible information" that they said did not come from the Internet.
.
Anonymous has modernized, reinvented and marketed the term "hacktivist'. First appearing markedly in 2003, Anonymous began as an internet gathering of disenfranchised hackers and bored online community members. Since then, Anonymous has not only grown in depth and breadth, but also in the amount of fear and trepidation it strikes into the heart of corporations, governments and private organizations around the globe.
Gabriella Coleman, Wolfe Chair in Scientific and Technological Literacy at McGill University, has become a well-known Anonymous expert. Trained as an anthropologist, she researches, writes, and teaches on hackers and digital activism. In her recent series on Internet Governance, Coleman provides an in-depth analysis of Anonymous.
"Anonymous has been adept at magnifying issues, boosting existing — usually oppositional — movements and converting amorphous discontent into a tangible form, " says Coleman. "They have been remarkably effective, despite lacking the human and financial resources to engage in long term strategic thinking or planning."
Activism as a whole is certainly not a new concept. Nor is 'extreme activism'. The 1960's began a breakdown of long-held values and norms within the younger generation. With the founding of the Students for a Democratic Society, sit-ins at Berkeley and the Free Speech Movement also came anti-war movements, Black Activism, burgeoning sexuality, Women's Rights, bombings, drugs, Hippies and Woodstock.
Counterculture itself is defined as a way of life and set of attitudes opposed to the prevailing social norm. It is the next generation, pushing and clawing through the commonplace and accepted, demanding it's voice, demanding change.
Anonymous gives voice to the unspoken and muted. It not only amplifies the cries of the counterculture - it is the counterculture. The modern day Loki - you're never really sure of they are the hero, or the anti-hero, but always a trickster.
Anonymous is well-known for having multiple projects rolling concurrently. Knows as 'Ops', they been well-known for Ops for the 'Lulz' (laughs) - coordinated pranks, just for the fun of it, but also target hotbed political and religious issues and cases involving attacks on women and children.
In many cases, not only have they drawn well-needed attention to an issue, but in some cases affected its outcome. Early this year, Anonymous took up the mantle for Rehtaeh Pearsons of Halifax. The seventeen year old girl had been drinking at a party in 2011 and reportedly gang-raped by four classmates who took pictures and posted them online. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police investigated the crime, but said there wasn't enough evidence to charge the boys.
For the next two years she was bullied, tormented and harassed to the point of her family being forced to move from their home. After years of torture, Rehtaeh hung herself in April of this year.
Anonymous was outraged, and released a statement announcing they had identified the four rapists. They demanded the Nova Scotia Police reopen the case or they would make the names public.
"Our demands are simple: We want the [Nova Scotia Royal Canadian Mounted Police] to take immediate legal action against the individuals in question. We encourage you to act fast. If we were able to locate these boys within 2 hours, it will not be long before someone else finds them," the statement read. With their trademark credo: "We are Anonymous. We are legion. We do not forgive. We do not forget. Expect us.”
On April 12, the RCMP announced the case was being reopened in light of "new and credible information" that they said did not come from the Internet.
.
Friday, October 11, 2013
Profile, Week 7
She flips back her ebony hair and yawns, looking forlornly at her mother. She is obviously weary. Her sad eyes glance at yet another tuft of hair dance across the floor.
She hasn't been here her whole life - they had adopted her in 2009 when she was being put back into the system (again). It had been her last chance, at some level she had known that. She was getting older, and even she understood that it was more difficult to get adopted as you aged. But, she was happy to be here, even if the current situation was...uncomfortable.
M. had been born into a family of seven. Her birth was solely to increase the amount of income coming in to the family - nothing more. On a sticky summer's day, it had been determined that her home was unfit - and a handful of people from the county took her away. While she was happy to be clean, warm and fed, she knew that her freedom was at the whim of strangers, and it terrified her.
Not long afterward, she had been placed in a foster home in Bangor. The older woman lived alone, and in a moment of melancholy had decided this is what she needed - some youth and vigor to keep her grounded and loved. At first, things were great. M. was clean and well fed, and the center of attention. As the days progressed, she discovered that her new guardian liked to drink and gamble. A lot. She began to come home very late, very broke and very, very stumbly. She would 'forget' to feed M. and more frequently than not, didn't have money left to buy food. Eventually, she was gone for days at a time. M. was brokenhearted. She had tried desperately to get her new mom's attention in any way she could. Nothing had worked.
On a sunny August afternoon, she had been playing alone in the back yard. A strange man came over - he was much bigger than her, and it was unnerving. She panicked when he came close and reached over to touch her hair. She had looked furtively toward the house - no mom, no escape. M. spun her head around and did the only thing she could think of - she chomped as hard as she could on his nicotine-stained fingers.
That was a lifetime ago. Her new mom had known the older woman, and had begged to be allowed to adopt M. when she was in trouble for biting the man. The old woman kept saying something about putting her down somewhere, but M. never really understood it. She did understand that the woman was really angry that she had bitten the man, and M. was sad and sorry for that. But on one cool fall morning, the older woman had packed up M. and her things in the car, and taken them to the new woman's house.
And then she left - without so much as a goodbye hug.
M. had been petrified and began to shake. She had met this woman a couple of times previously, but everything else was new and different; her world was crumbling. She climbed up into her lap and closed her eyes. The woman whispered to her and held her close until she stopped shaking.
After a few months of love and care, this new family became her own. She had a sister - bigger than her, but younger and full of energy. M. had become queen of the house, and Mom's favorite. She loved her family, and they loved her. Finally, she had a real, safe home.
That was over four years ago. And yet...
Every fall, beginning in August, she began to itch and lose her hair. A skin condition, the doctor had said, caused by nerves and the change of seasons. She has sprays and special shampoos; none of which seem to help much. Tufts of hair float across the wood floor and stick to the rug in spite of her mother vacuuming most every day. Every other day she gets a bath, and what's left of her hair washed in hypo-allergenic shampoo. She even has a special diet. Her skin is sprayed with the prescription liquid to help ease the itching. But M. can't help herself - it's constant and maddening. Even M.'s Mom gets frustrated with it sometimes. The discovery of Benadryl has meant that M. has finally been able to get some serious sleep, without the incessant and infernal itching - and that means her family can catch up on some uninterrupted sleep too.
They are just need to get her though the end of October - when the itching will subside and her nerves will calm again for another year.
She hasn't been here her whole life - they had adopted her in 2009 when she was being put back into the system (again). It had been her last chance, at some level she had known that. She was getting older, and even she understood that it was more difficult to get adopted as you aged. But, she was happy to be here, even if the current situation was...uncomfortable.
M. had been born into a family of seven. Her birth was solely to increase the amount of income coming in to the family - nothing more. On a sticky summer's day, it had been determined that her home was unfit - and a handful of people from the county took her away. While she was happy to be clean, warm and fed, she knew that her freedom was at the whim of strangers, and it terrified her.
Not long afterward, she had been placed in a foster home in Bangor. The older woman lived alone, and in a moment of melancholy had decided this is what she needed - some youth and vigor to keep her grounded and loved. At first, things were great. M. was clean and well fed, and the center of attention. As the days progressed, she discovered that her new guardian liked to drink and gamble. A lot. She began to come home very late, very broke and very, very stumbly. She would 'forget' to feed M. and more frequently than not, didn't have money left to buy food. Eventually, she was gone for days at a time. M. was brokenhearted. She had tried desperately to get her new mom's attention in any way she could. Nothing had worked.
On a sunny August afternoon, she had been playing alone in the back yard. A strange man came over - he was much bigger than her, and it was unnerving. She panicked when he came close and reached over to touch her hair. She had looked furtively toward the house - no mom, no escape. M. spun her head around and did the only thing she could think of - she chomped as hard as she could on his nicotine-stained fingers.
That was a lifetime ago. Her new mom had known the older woman, and had begged to be allowed to adopt M. when she was in trouble for biting the man. The old woman kept saying something about putting her down somewhere, but M. never really understood it. She did understand that the woman was really angry that she had bitten the man, and M. was sad and sorry for that. But on one cool fall morning, the older woman had packed up M. and her things in the car, and taken them to the new woman's house.
And then she left - without so much as a goodbye hug.
M. had been petrified and began to shake. She had met this woman a couple of times previously, but everything else was new and different; her world was crumbling. She climbed up into her lap and closed her eyes. The woman whispered to her and held her close until she stopped shaking.
After a few months of love and care, this new family became her own. She had a sister - bigger than her, but younger and full of energy. M. had become queen of the house, and Mom's favorite. She loved her family, and they loved her. Finally, she had a real, safe home.
That was over four years ago. And yet...
Every fall, beginning in August, she began to itch and lose her hair. A skin condition, the doctor had said, caused by nerves and the change of seasons. She has sprays and special shampoos; none of which seem to help much. Tufts of hair float across the wood floor and stick to the rug in spite of her mother vacuuming most every day. Every other day she gets a bath, and what's left of her hair washed in hypo-allergenic shampoo. She even has a special diet. Her skin is sprayed with the prescription liquid to help ease the itching. But M. can't help herself - it's constant and maddening. Even M.'s Mom gets frustrated with it sometimes. The discovery of Benadryl has meant that M. has finally been able to get some serious sleep, without the incessant and infernal itching - and that means her family can catch up on some uninterrupted sleep too.
They are just need to get her though the end of October - when the itching will subside and her nerves will calm again for another year.
Thursday, October 3, 2013
Autobiographical Slice
My bottom hurts.
I rode my new bike for the second day in a row, about 2 1/2 miles. And my bum hurts. I think if my poor bike was animated it would wail like a brokenhearted banshee.
I've had problems with my weight most of my life. From very early on when I discovered books, reading became my obsession. I would read all the time - in the bathroom, in the car, at the doctor's office. My mother would send me outside to 'get some fresh air', and I would go sit on a boulder with my book and read. I ate and read. Exercise, for the sake of exercise, was not on my schedule.
By the time I was thirteen, it was obvious I had inherited my Great Aunt Vivian's stature. At 6'2" and big boned, she was no fragile daisy. In fact, she had leveraged her size to intimidate many people in the military, and was rumored to have even backed a former mafia don into a corner. One evening she had been walking into a restaurant on the boardwalk in New Jersey, and felt a twist in her ankle. She went in to dinner, and their waiter asked if she was okay, as she was bleeding on the floor. Turns out, she had been shot by a roving bullet in a drive-by shooting. She was tough as nails! I both envied and feared her; she had become an old maid after all.
As I entered my teenage years, I was 5'8" and 160 pounds. My mother was on me constantly about watching what I ate. I knew I was a disappointment - I wasn't that adorable, perky little pixie girl like my youngest sister. I was the awkward, bumbling bookworm who hadn't lost any baby fat and was now getting acne on top of everything else. Awesome.
In 1982, I was on the basketball team at Mahoney Middle School. I liked basketball enough, but I liked how it made my father proud more. (Except when someone screwed up and he yelled really, really loud. Yeah - he was THAT dad). For the first time that I could remember, he bragged about me to other people, and that made up for any embarrassing hullabaloo at my games. . My mother liked that I was getting exercise every day, but was still on me all the time about how much I ate. I would come home from a 2 1/2 hour practice absolutely ravenous, and she would give me a hard time about eating. Looking back now, I realize it wasn't how much I was eating. In truth, I wasn't eating enough - no breakfast or lunch, a snack when I got home, then dinner and maybe a snack later. I know know it was what I was eating that was the problem - processed and junk foods.
In 1984, I was doe-eyed, acne-faced freshman, at 5'11" and 180 pounds. My mother had gotten so fed up with me, she had decided to stop grocery shopping altogether. She purchased what was needed for dinner daily - nothing else. Our cupboards were bare most of the time. I felt like I was starving, and hated myself for it.
Flash forward twenty years. By the age of 35, I was desperate. I had just had my second child (by caesarean section), and couldn't seem to lose the weight. It had been a difficult pregnancy, and I had become anemic, pre-eclamptic and pre-diabetic. A year later, I was still anemic and pre-diabetic, but also had developed thyroid issues, high blood pressure and heart arrhythmias. My doctor finally agreed to a referral for Lap-band surgery.
A laproscopic band is like one of those short, thick elastics we used to love to shoot at each other when we were kids (or last week in the office). It's a medical grade plastic tire, about the size of a fifty cent piece. It has an inner tube that can be 'inflated' with saline, to loosen or tighten the band. It's installed via laproscopic surgery (hence the name). It took two and a half hours. After the surgery I was in the hospital for 2 days and then on a completely liquid diet for the first two weeks. I lost twelve pounds.
As the first year progressed, I lost sixty pounds. I was elated! I danced around my living room, I was walking and hiking, I was outside playing with my kids. I looked good; I felt great. I was beginning to feel better about myself. I wore shorter skirts and lower cut blouses. My sons asked my husband what was wrong with me. I was proud of my new body.
By year three, I was down from an original 263 pounds at the time of surgery, to 155 pounds and a size six. In addition to the surgery, I had been required to attend meetings with a nutritionist and support group meetings. I learned about making healthier choices, and portion size from a really annoying Barbie-look alike that I was quite sure had never had a weight problem in her life. I learned I wasn't alone. I discovered, after all that pressure, fighting, starving, binging when I was a kid - that 155 is my 'perfect' number for my height. My 'sweet spot', as my internist put it.
That would've been handy information twenty years ago.
I have had my ups and downs since then. Currently I am on a 'down' period again, where I am unhappy with my weight. I lost my insurance with my job almost three years ago, and have not had the funds to go to my internist for band adjustments. I'm too proud and stubborn to sign up for MaineCare, and I won't voluntarily go without the funds.
My daughter and I started biking together yesterday, as a means of exercise and entertainment. I recognize that this will be a lifelong battle for me. We've been working on being healthy - not dieting. I'm pretty cognizant of inflicting the same weight-conscious attitude on her, and therefore I work on being an example as best I can. I think the key is to find balance in your life. There will always be ups and downs, highs and lows, size sixes and more 'fluffy' sizes. The trick is to be okay and secure in that knowledge, and to keep moving. No matter how much your bottom hurts.
I rode my new bike for the second day in a row, about 2 1/2 miles. And my bum hurts. I think if my poor bike was animated it would wail like a brokenhearted banshee.
I've had problems with my weight most of my life. From very early on when I discovered books, reading became my obsession. I would read all the time - in the bathroom, in the car, at the doctor's office. My mother would send me outside to 'get some fresh air', and I would go sit on a boulder with my book and read. I ate and read. Exercise, for the sake of exercise, was not on my schedule.
By the time I was thirteen, it was obvious I had inherited my Great Aunt Vivian's stature. At 6'2" and big boned, she was no fragile daisy. In fact, she had leveraged her size to intimidate many people in the military, and was rumored to have even backed a former mafia don into a corner. One evening she had been walking into a restaurant on the boardwalk in New Jersey, and felt a twist in her ankle. She went in to dinner, and their waiter asked if she was okay, as she was bleeding on the floor. Turns out, she had been shot by a roving bullet in a drive-by shooting. She was tough as nails! I both envied and feared her; she had become an old maid after all.
As I entered my teenage years, I was 5'8" and 160 pounds. My mother was on me constantly about watching what I ate. I knew I was a disappointment - I wasn't that adorable, perky little pixie girl like my youngest sister. I was the awkward, bumbling bookworm who hadn't lost any baby fat and was now getting acne on top of everything else. Awesome.
In 1982, I was on the basketball team at Mahoney Middle School. I liked basketball enough, but I liked how it made my father proud more. (Except when someone screwed up and he yelled really, really loud. Yeah - he was THAT dad). For the first time that I could remember, he bragged about me to other people, and that made up for any embarrassing hullabaloo at my games. . My mother liked that I was getting exercise every day, but was still on me all the time about how much I ate. I would come home from a 2 1/2 hour practice absolutely ravenous, and she would give me a hard time about eating. Looking back now, I realize it wasn't how much I was eating. In truth, I wasn't eating enough - no breakfast or lunch, a snack when I got home, then dinner and maybe a snack later. I know know it was what I was eating that was the problem - processed and junk foods.
In 1984, I was doe-eyed, acne-faced freshman, at 5'11" and 180 pounds. My mother had gotten so fed up with me, she had decided to stop grocery shopping altogether. She purchased what was needed for dinner daily - nothing else. Our cupboards were bare most of the time. I felt like I was starving, and hated myself for it.
Flash forward twenty years. By the age of 35, I was desperate. I had just had my second child (by caesarean section), and couldn't seem to lose the weight. It had been a difficult pregnancy, and I had become anemic, pre-eclamptic and pre-diabetic. A year later, I was still anemic and pre-diabetic, but also had developed thyroid issues, high blood pressure and heart arrhythmias. My doctor finally agreed to a referral for Lap-band surgery.
A laproscopic band is like one of those short, thick elastics we used to love to shoot at each other when we were kids (or last week in the office). It's a medical grade plastic tire, about the size of a fifty cent piece. It has an inner tube that can be 'inflated' with saline, to loosen or tighten the band. It's installed via laproscopic surgery (hence the name). It took two and a half hours. After the surgery I was in the hospital for 2 days and then on a completely liquid diet for the first two weeks. I lost twelve pounds.
As the first year progressed, I lost sixty pounds. I was elated! I danced around my living room, I was walking and hiking, I was outside playing with my kids. I looked good; I felt great. I was beginning to feel better about myself. I wore shorter skirts and lower cut blouses. My sons asked my husband what was wrong with me. I was proud of my new body.
By year three, I was down from an original 263 pounds at the time of surgery, to 155 pounds and a size six. In addition to the surgery, I had been required to attend meetings with a nutritionist and support group meetings. I learned about making healthier choices, and portion size from a really annoying Barbie-look alike that I was quite sure had never had a weight problem in her life. I learned I wasn't alone. I discovered, after all that pressure, fighting, starving, binging when I was a kid - that 155 is my 'perfect' number for my height. My 'sweet spot', as my internist put it.
That would've been handy information twenty years ago.
I have had my ups and downs since then. Currently I am on a 'down' period again, where I am unhappy with my weight. I lost my insurance with my job almost three years ago, and have not had the funds to go to my internist for band adjustments. I'm too proud and stubborn to sign up for MaineCare, and I won't voluntarily go without the funds.
My daughter and I started biking together yesterday, as a means of exercise and entertainment. I recognize that this will be a lifelong battle for me. We've been working on being healthy - not dieting. I'm pretty cognizant of inflicting the same weight-conscious attitude on her, and therefore I work on being an example as best I can. I think the key is to find balance in your life. There will always be ups and downs, highs and lows, size sixes and more 'fluffy' sizes. The trick is to be okay and secure in that knowledge, and to keep moving. No matter how much your bottom hurts.
Friday, September 27, 2013
Adult Memoir - Rewrite III
I had given her ample warning. Her arrogance had worn thin. I whipped the Pontiac three lanes over to the curb.
"Get out. Get..the.. fuck....out..of..my....car, right NOW." She had stirred up so much trouble at the nursing home, I couldn't take one more second of it.
She stared back at me, eyes wide, face flushed. "What?!" she sputtered.
"You heard me. Get out." (Ironic, how solemnity is scarier than a tirade.)
I felt scary, out of control. I had desperately clutched the hand of love, only to watch it flit away from my fingers forever. I was in no mood for her whining and narcissistic dramatics.
"But..but..you can't! You can't just leave me here in the middle of town!"
"I can, and I AM. Get out or I will drag you out." I turned and looked her dead-on, allowing my eyes to communicate the steel in my heart. "Now."
With a huff and sputter she opened the door, cursing me out as she slammed it shut. She never liked me, I was a bitch, it served me right, I was ...<BLAH, BLah, Blah, blah....b..l..a..h>. I let the words wash over me and fade under the squealing of tires. I'd been listening to this blather for all of her twenty-eight years.
As I drove through town, I second guessed myself momentarily. It was three in the morning, and the city was a ghost town, and she was my sister, right? I looked around as I drove. Our altercation had reverberated through the alleys and buildings, mirroring the empty ricochet in my heart and head. I powered down the windows and allowed the crisp February air to caress my forehead. She hadn't been a sister in a very long time.
The cold blast helped to clear my head and solidified my resolve. She'd be fine, I reasoned. A nice cold walk might give her a chance to think about the pain she had just inflicted. Oh holy hell - who was I kidding? She never thought about anyone else - she was not about to suddenly achieve clarity through sorrow, anger and cold. But what if she was attacked? I laughed out loud. God help the poor SOB. She had dated most of them anyway, and she'd never had a problem standing up for herself. Not ever.
As I drove toward the outskirts of town, I tried to make sense of my volatility. I was grieving for my grandfather, yes...but it was completely out of character for me to be that....heartless and calculated. Pop would not be happy with that performance, but in an odd way, I was.
Memories flooded the front seat as I drove on. More recent ones of being the first to arrive at the nursing home after the call from the nurse. Climbing onto the rugged bed, wrapping my arms around the near stillness of him, whispering how much I loved him. Holding my grandfather's worn face and whispering, "It's okay...I know you are tired....it's ok. We'll be okay, I promise..." Physical pain trying to choke the words out, but knowing at some level he was waiting to hear them. Watching his chest rise, and then fall with the final exhalation that was more like an exasperating and weary sigh.
A wave of nausea came over me recalling my sister's tirade in the halls of the mostly asleep nursing home, demanding that my father leave immediately, that he had no right to be there. Why are you already here? The sweet, sickly smell of alcohol on her breath as she made demands, hands on her hips, eyes dilated. Rapidly inventorying my mental file cabinets trying to recall any info on dealing with coked up alcoholics. She was escalating, shit... please don't call the cops..please don't call the cops.... You must think you are some kind of special?! What did he say to you? It's not right that you were here and nobody else. You people are hypocrites and none of you should be here! Nothing like sitting around watching him die, yeah, that's a fun night, right? My attempts to quiet her, to reason with her, all the while knowing it wouldn't work. My low, furious whisper in her ear, "Go to my car now, before I drop you to the ground and drag you out by your bleached roots," took her (and me) by surprise. Truth be told, I was bluffing. I never expected her to actually do it.
The awkward apologies to the nursing staff, and sheepish thanks. The piteous looks in response.
The long walk down the hall and out the door. Alone.
Distant voices roared in my head and I winced. Far flung memories of angry parents, alcohol, fighting, violence, broken windows and walls....corked vials of hateful words and actions, desperation and loneliness. Understanding where it came from didn't make it any easier to stomach. Not now. Not tonight.
On the car ride to deliver her to her apartment, listening to her vomit up years of imagined slights, self-righteous indignation and deflection. Try to be patient, I thought,she's grieving too. Sort of. You can't talk to her right now, wait until she's sober. Feeling the rage stewing below the surface, swallowing hard to keep it there. A comment about my son. In a split second, I went from simmer to a full rolling boil in a flash. I couldn't look at her round, pasty, mouth-breathing face hurling vile comments and demands at me and the world for one more moment.
And now.....blessed silence.
I was disappointed. It was my responsibility to be better. I could be better. I was better.
It struck me with blinding simplicity - she would never change. She would always be this junked-up, self-indulgent twelve year old for the rest of her life. She liked her life and didn't see any issues with it. Isn't that what they had told us in Psychology class? I briefly smirked at the irony.
The epiphany provoked the missing tears. Gushing droplets of sorrow, loss and anger, shame and frustration. I couldn't fix her because she didn't want to be fixed. I had failed somewhere along the line as the quintessential Big Sister. I had tried as best I could, but it wasn't enough, was it?
I drove forward, welcoming the blackness waiting beyond the city limits.
"Get out. Get..the.. fuck....out..of..my....car, right NOW." She had stirred up so much trouble at the nursing home, I couldn't take one more second of it.
She stared back at me, eyes wide, face flushed. "What?!" she sputtered.
"You heard me. Get out." (Ironic, how solemnity is scarier than a tirade.)
I felt scary, out of control. I had desperately clutched the hand of love, only to watch it flit away from my fingers forever. I was in no mood for her whining and narcissistic dramatics.
"But..but..you can't! You can't just leave me here in the middle of town!"
"I can, and I AM. Get out or I will drag you out." I turned and looked her dead-on, allowing my eyes to communicate the steel in my heart. "Now."
With a huff and sputter she opened the door, cursing me out as she slammed it shut. She never liked me, I was a bitch, it served me right, I was ...<BLAH, BLah, Blah, blah....b..l..a..h>. I let the words wash over me and fade under the squealing of tires. I'd been listening to this blather for all of her twenty-eight years.
As I drove through town, I second guessed myself momentarily. It was three in the morning, and the city was a ghost town, and she was my sister, right? I looked around as I drove. Our altercation had reverberated through the alleys and buildings, mirroring the empty ricochet in my heart and head. I powered down the windows and allowed the crisp February air to caress my forehead. She hadn't been a sister in a very long time.
The cold blast helped to clear my head and solidified my resolve. She'd be fine, I reasoned. A nice cold walk might give her a chance to think about the pain she had just inflicted. Oh holy hell - who was I kidding? She never thought about anyone else - she was not about to suddenly achieve clarity through sorrow, anger and cold. But what if she was attacked? I laughed out loud. God help the poor SOB. She had dated most of them anyway, and she'd never had a problem standing up for herself. Not ever.
As I drove toward the outskirts of town, I tried to make sense of my volatility. I was grieving for my grandfather, yes...but it was completely out of character for me to be that....heartless and calculated. Pop would not be happy with that performance, but in an odd way, I was.
Memories flooded the front seat as I drove on. More recent ones of being the first to arrive at the nursing home after the call from the nurse. Climbing onto the rugged bed, wrapping my arms around the near stillness of him, whispering how much I loved him. Holding my grandfather's worn face and whispering, "It's okay...I know you are tired....it's ok. We'll be okay, I promise..." Physical pain trying to choke the words out, but knowing at some level he was waiting to hear them. Watching his chest rise, and then fall with the final exhalation that was more like an exasperating and weary sigh.
A wave of nausea came over me recalling my sister's tirade in the halls of the mostly asleep nursing home, demanding that my father leave immediately, that he had no right to be there. Why are you already here? The sweet, sickly smell of alcohol on her breath as she made demands, hands on her hips, eyes dilated. Rapidly inventorying my mental file cabinets trying to recall any info on dealing with coked up alcoholics. She was escalating, shit... please don't call the cops..please don't call the cops.... You must think you are some kind of special?! What did he say to you? It's not right that you were here and nobody else. You people are hypocrites and none of you should be here! Nothing like sitting around watching him die, yeah, that's a fun night, right? My attempts to quiet her, to reason with her, all the while knowing it wouldn't work. My low, furious whisper in her ear, "Go to my car now, before I drop you to the ground and drag you out by your bleached roots," took her (and me) by surprise. Truth be told, I was bluffing. I never expected her to actually do it.
The awkward apologies to the nursing staff, and sheepish thanks. The piteous looks in response.
The long walk down the hall and out the door. Alone.
Distant voices roared in my head and I winced. Far flung memories of angry parents, alcohol, fighting, violence, broken windows and walls....corked vials of hateful words and actions, desperation and loneliness. Understanding where it came from didn't make it any easier to stomach. Not now. Not tonight.
On the car ride to deliver her to her apartment, listening to her vomit up years of imagined slights, self-righteous indignation and deflection. Try to be patient, I thought,she's grieving too. Sort of. You can't talk to her right now, wait until she's sober. Feeling the rage stewing below the surface, swallowing hard to keep it there. A comment about my son. In a split second, I went from simmer to a full rolling boil in a flash. I couldn't look at her round, pasty, mouth-breathing face hurling vile comments and demands at me and the world for one more moment.
And now.....blessed silence.
I was disappointed. It was my responsibility to be better. I could be better. I was better.
It struck me with blinding simplicity - she would never change. She would always be this junked-up, self-indulgent twelve year old for the rest of her life. She liked her life and didn't see any issues with it. Isn't that what they had told us in Psychology class? I briefly smirked at the irony.
The epiphany provoked the missing tears. Gushing droplets of sorrow, loss and anger, shame and frustration. I couldn't fix her because she didn't want to be fixed. I had failed somewhere along the line as the quintessential Big Sister. I had tried as best I could, but it wasn't enough, was it?
I drove forward, welcoming the blackness waiting beyond the city limits.
Sunday, September 15, 2013
A Childhood Memoir - Revision 2
I was nine, and true freedom was a wristwatch and a two-wheeled bicycle. I
would ride for miles; each day growing braver and more fearless. My bike represented hope and confidence to me; things I lacked. It was boldness and spirit, wrapped up in a shiny, midnight blue package.
My grandfather was a jaunty, streetwise Irish detective, and here visiting his granddaughters for two weeks. I had been showing off on my new bike, riding up and down the hill in the street beyond our driveway. I would pedal up, then turn and pedal as fast as I could launching myself over the top of the hill. My stomach wavered and my head felt fluttery and light. I imagined this was what it felt like to fly! Over and over and over again....up the hill, down the hill, up the hill, down the hill. It made me a bit nauseous, but I couldn't stop.
On my sixth run, I was feeling pretty confident. I was giddy from soaring and swooping at near-light speed. I was invincible! When I crested the hill, I caught off to my right. In a terrifying flash, I saw a gauntlet of pavement and rocks lying in the middle of the street. No way to stop, too fast, too fast! I'm not sure if I my scream was in my head or out loud.
My blue three-speed hit a large, savage block and halted dead in it's tracks. Propulsion rocketed my body upward and over the handlebars, soaring through the air. It was an eery juxtaposition - watching it all happening, with a heightened awareness of time and space, but no ability to effect a change. This wasn't going to be good.
I hit the pavement face first, and instantly felt a searing, ripping pain like I had never before felt in my life. Skidding and bouncing up the road, I rolled four times and landed in a gravel ditch. My bike had ricocheted down the center line and jangled to a stop about twenty feet away. I tried to move; every part of me hurt. I had to get my bike before a car came! Crap! OW!
I put my hands to my face and head, trying to assess the damage. My palms were covered in blood and gravel and shredded skin. Blood! Panic! Ohmygodithurts! I began to cry, slowly at first and quickly launched into gasping huge dollops of air. Sobbing and hysterical, I heaved giant breaths of fear, pain, relief and pure adrenalin.
My sister had been silently observing my antics. She ran to the house, fully intending to tattle that I had wrecked my new bike. Pop must've been taken aback to see me standing in the middle of the busy road, looking like an extra in a B horror movie. He was an intimidating man by anyone's standard, but on this day he ran faster and with more grace and agility than even Carl Lewis dared dream. Through salty tears and grime, I watched him zooming closer, in a dead-on sprint down the long driveway. For a brief moment, I feared he wouldn't be able to stop either and I'd be in another accident.
Thankfully, he had far better control than I did. In one motion, he scooped me up in his arms and held me close, saying "I've got you honey...I got you. It's gonna be okay..." I rested my head on his chest, still bawling my heart out. He used a foot to snag my mangled bike and heave it to the side of the road. The smell of Old Spice and sweat were oddly comforting. I worried that I was getting blood and snot on his nice shirt.
He carried me right to the tiny upstairs bath. Mother brushed by him, loudly exclaiming, "Oh Sweet Jesus, NOW what have you done?!" I couldn't stop crying and couldn't catch my breath long enough to explain. She managed to clean me up in spite of my flailing against the course washcloth and brusque demeanor. I glanced in the mirror and whimpered when I saw my broken reflection. My prize for racing (and crashing) was not simply an ugly road rash from head to toe, I'd also managed to shatter my two front teeth. It hurt so badly; the nerves were exposed and raw, and it felt like my face was on fire. I was pretty sure that I was going to be toothless and ugly forever.
The dentist agreed to see me immediately, and we set out on the hour-long journey to his office.
Pop sat with me in the back seat of the Chevy wagon, and he held me close for the long ride. I wondered, years later, what passers-by must have thought glancing in our window. When we finally arrived, the dentist looked from me to my mother and shook his head. I followed him to the chair, silently cursing my mother for bringing me to have shots on top of my already catastrophic day. Right off the bat he gave me five shots of novocaine, mumbling under his breath. I never understood the meaning of a paradox until that very moment. What sweet relief!
An hour later, my teeth were repaired and my face numb and drooly. I rested my forehead on the cool window in the backseat, watching the edge of the road hurtle by mile after mile. My head was muddled and awkward, and I was exhausted. I wondered why flying and freedom had to be so painful. It seemed a steep price. I looked up at Pop, and he winked at me.
Somehow, I felt more grown up.
My grandfather was a jaunty, streetwise Irish detective, and here visiting his granddaughters for two weeks. I had been showing off on my new bike, riding up and down the hill in the street beyond our driveway. I would pedal up, then turn and pedal as fast as I could launching myself over the top of the hill. My stomach wavered and my head felt fluttery and light. I imagined this was what it felt like to fly! Over and over and over again....up the hill, down the hill, up the hill, down the hill. It made me a bit nauseous, but I couldn't stop.
On my sixth run, I was feeling pretty confident. I was giddy from soaring and swooping at near-light speed. I was invincible! When I crested the hill, I caught off to my right. In a terrifying flash, I saw a gauntlet of pavement and rocks lying in the middle of the street. No way to stop, too fast, too fast! I'm not sure if I my scream was in my head or out loud.
My blue three-speed hit a large, savage block and halted dead in it's tracks. Propulsion rocketed my body upward and over the handlebars, soaring through the air. It was an eery juxtaposition - watching it all happening, with a heightened awareness of time and space, but no ability to effect a change. This wasn't going to be good.
I hit the pavement face first, and instantly felt a searing, ripping pain like I had never before felt in my life. Skidding and bouncing up the road, I rolled four times and landed in a gravel ditch. My bike had ricocheted down the center line and jangled to a stop about twenty feet away. I tried to move; every part of me hurt. I had to get my bike before a car came! Crap! OW!
I put my hands to my face and head, trying to assess the damage. My palms were covered in blood and gravel and shredded skin. Blood! Panic! Ohmygodithurts! I began to cry, slowly at first and quickly launched into gasping huge dollops of air. Sobbing and hysterical, I heaved giant breaths of fear, pain, relief and pure adrenalin.
My sister had been silently observing my antics. She ran to the house, fully intending to tattle that I had wrecked my new bike. Pop must've been taken aback to see me standing in the middle of the busy road, looking like an extra in a B horror movie. He was an intimidating man by anyone's standard, but on this day he ran faster and with more grace and agility than even Carl Lewis dared dream. Through salty tears and grime, I watched him zooming closer, in a dead-on sprint down the long driveway. For a brief moment, I feared he wouldn't be able to stop either and I'd be in another accident.
Thankfully, he had far better control than I did. In one motion, he scooped me up in his arms and held me close, saying "I've got you honey...I got you. It's gonna be okay..." I rested my head on his chest, still bawling my heart out. He used a foot to snag my mangled bike and heave it to the side of the road. The smell of Old Spice and sweat were oddly comforting. I worried that I was getting blood and snot on his nice shirt.
He carried me right to the tiny upstairs bath. Mother brushed by him, loudly exclaiming, "Oh Sweet Jesus, NOW what have you done?!" I couldn't stop crying and couldn't catch my breath long enough to explain. She managed to clean me up in spite of my flailing against the course washcloth and brusque demeanor. I glanced in the mirror and whimpered when I saw my broken reflection. My prize for racing (and crashing) was not simply an ugly road rash from head to toe, I'd also managed to shatter my two front teeth. It hurt so badly; the nerves were exposed and raw, and it felt like my face was on fire. I was pretty sure that I was going to be toothless and ugly forever.
The dentist agreed to see me immediately, and we set out on the hour-long journey to his office.
Pop sat with me in the back seat of the Chevy wagon, and he held me close for the long ride. I wondered, years later, what passers-by must have thought glancing in our window. When we finally arrived, the dentist looked from me to my mother and shook his head. I followed him to the chair, silently cursing my mother for bringing me to have shots on top of my already catastrophic day. Right off the bat he gave me five shots of novocaine, mumbling under his breath. I never understood the meaning of a paradox until that very moment. What sweet relief!
An hour later, my teeth were repaired and my face numb and drooly. I rested my forehead on the cool window in the backseat, watching the edge of the road hurtle by mile after mile. My head was muddled and awkward, and I was exhausted. I wondered why flying and freedom had to be so painful. It seemed a steep price. I looked up at Pop, and he winked at me.
Somehow, I felt more grown up.
Monday, September 9, 2013
Revision: Travel Essay
It was gray everywhere. Overcast in both weather and demeanor, and not looking good for tomorrow either. I disliked it here; even the air tasted of grit and sadness and fear. It wasn't always like this.
The windows of the lime green cab were clean, as was the inside. A small but pleasant surprise. I gazed out the window as we passed over the parkway. Tall buildings, earmarked with occasional muted lights pocking their face. Abandoned mills and boarded up houses everywhere you looked. This was the first ever planned industrial city in the United States. Hamilton had a core belief that, even then, the United States needed to reduce it's dependence on imports and develop it's own industries and capabilities. I wonder what he would think of his life's work now, I mused. This now moth-addled Silk City.
The saving grace of Paterson, of Passaic County, is the Great Falls. At 77 feet high, it was one of the tallest and most beautiful waterfalls in the country, which of course meant it had to be harnessed by man. These falls literally powered the Industrial Revolution. Ironic, I thought, that most people, even it's own residents, weren't aware they existed.
I had wondered if I would feel a connection to this city, this city I was born in, the place I grew up. So far I felt no attachment to the sights and sounds, only a wistful ache for the rapidly vanishing clan that are my blood. The same ache that is my reason for being here - another funeral. Traveling on the MLK, we pass the old Colt factory. Paradoxes everywhere. I wonder if Samuel Colt would feel guilt about this city's violent disposition.
Long before I was born, this city had been vibrant and alive; during the Gilded Age upper- and middle-class families had flourished. The wave of immigrants had been tremendous; in fact, my ancestors were some of them. My great, great grandparents bounded a steamship, five young children in tow, and headed for the promise of a new (and ostensibly better) life. Galway was bleak and desperate, and to them, the American Dream was alive and fat with promise, and accessible to anyone who worked hard enough.
I glanced out the other window of the cab, across the Passaic River. Even at this early hour, it looks dark, dirty and uninviting. Maybe it's just me, I thought. Maybe I'm projecting. I think of the days events ahead. Check in at the hotel, find my bearings, locate some decent coffee, then call Maureen. Maybe meet for some lunch. Wake tonight, followed by the obligatory drinking and eating, and more drinking that are part of the Irish tradition of delivering a loved one to the afterlife. I'd best make sure to have ibuprofen and bottled water handy.
The hotel is a chain place, and the rubber-stamped entry and furniture are alight and tired. The weary desk auditor seems curious and dispassionate that I have traveled from Maine to this war-torn city. There's only one reason I would return here, and this would be my last visit.
I loved my Grandfather's family, as cracked and sometimes scary as they were. They were incredibly interesting and unique - from hardworking and miserable Great Great Grandparents, who apparently couldn't stop breeding, to their daughter who was a burlesque dancer and a son who was a well-known boxer to the members of the local Irish and Italian mafias.
But there weren't many of them left. In fact, this funeral marked the end of not only an era, but closed a door on New Jersey for me. I had already lost my Grandparents, Godparents, various Aunts & Uncles....my Great Aunt was the last of the clan that I had been remotely connected to.
Now in my room, I walked to the sliding glass doors overlooking the city. Everything I can see is brown and gray and black, dirty...the colors of fear, discouragement and irrevocable helplessness. I'm not looking forward to these two days. Wakes and funerals are not pleasant on their own; feeling like an interloper at them is worse. Everyone will be drunk and loving tonight, tomorrow's headaches will bring a harsher, more frigid reality.
Daring to walk the Fourth Ward on Martin Luther King Boulevard, I'm struck by the quantity of eerily battened windows of the long-closed establishments, now powdered and rouged with the autographs and warnings of malcontents. Overgrown trash-strewn lots and foreclosed and forlorn homes abound, interspersed with alarmingly busy alleyways. I keep my eyes ahead, briefly noticing movement in my periphery. Gone are the days of children walking to school and leisurely afternoon strolls to the market. Here, public family life is a veiled enigma, quietly situated behind deadbolts, iron bars and bulletproof glass.
I'm happy to see the coffee shop. The nature of these businesses means they are bustling at this hour, and the smells and sounds are a welcome respite. I wait in line behind harried business people checking their watches and cell phones, and order my coffee and a scrumptious looking croissant with pecans. I look around for a spot, and take up residence in the corner away from the windows, with my back facing the wall.
Taking a long sip of the molten coffee, I steel myself and dial Maureen.
The windows of the lime green cab were clean, as was the inside. A small but pleasant surprise. I gazed out the window as we passed over the parkway. Tall buildings, earmarked with occasional muted lights pocking their face. Abandoned mills and boarded up houses everywhere you looked. This was the first ever planned industrial city in the United States. Hamilton had a core belief that, even then, the United States needed to reduce it's dependence on imports and develop it's own industries and capabilities. I wonder what he would think of his life's work now, I mused. This now moth-addled Silk City.
The saving grace of Paterson, of Passaic County, is the Great Falls. At 77 feet high, it was one of the tallest and most beautiful waterfalls in the country, which of course meant it had to be harnessed by man. These falls literally powered the Industrial Revolution. Ironic, I thought, that most people, even it's own residents, weren't aware they existed.
I had wondered if I would feel a connection to this city, this city I was born in, the place I grew up. So far I felt no attachment to the sights and sounds, only a wistful ache for the rapidly vanishing clan that are my blood. The same ache that is my reason for being here - another funeral. Traveling on the MLK, we pass the old Colt factory. Paradoxes everywhere. I wonder if Samuel Colt would feel guilt about this city's violent disposition.
Long before I was born, this city had been vibrant and alive; during the Gilded Age upper- and middle-class families had flourished. The wave of immigrants had been tremendous; in fact, my ancestors were some of them. My great, great grandparents bounded a steamship, five young children in tow, and headed for the promise of a new (and ostensibly better) life. Galway was bleak and desperate, and to them, the American Dream was alive and fat with promise, and accessible to anyone who worked hard enough.
I glanced out the other window of the cab, across the Passaic River. Even at this early hour, it looks dark, dirty and uninviting. Maybe it's just me, I thought. Maybe I'm projecting. I think of the days events ahead. Check in at the hotel, find my bearings, locate some decent coffee, then call Maureen. Maybe meet for some lunch. Wake tonight, followed by the obligatory drinking and eating, and more drinking that are part of the Irish tradition of delivering a loved one to the afterlife. I'd best make sure to have ibuprofen and bottled water handy.
The hotel is a chain place, and the rubber-stamped entry and furniture are alight and tired. The weary desk auditor seems curious and dispassionate that I have traveled from Maine to this war-torn city. There's only one reason I would return here, and this would be my last visit.
I loved my Grandfather's family, as cracked and sometimes scary as they were. They were incredibly interesting and unique - from hardworking and miserable Great Great Grandparents, who apparently couldn't stop breeding, to their daughter who was a burlesque dancer and a son who was a well-known boxer to the members of the local Irish and Italian mafias.
But there weren't many of them left. In fact, this funeral marked the end of not only an era, but closed a door on New Jersey for me. I had already lost my Grandparents, Godparents, various Aunts & Uncles....my Great Aunt was the last of the clan that I had been remotely connected to.
Now in my room, I walked to the sliding glass doors overlooking the city. Everything I can see is brown and gray and black, dirty...the colors of fear, discouragement and irrevocable helplessness. I'm not looking forward to these two days. Wakes and funerals are not pleasant on their own; feeling like an interloper at them is worse. Everyone will be drunk and loving tonight, tomorrow's headaches will bring a harsher, more frigid reality.
Daring to walk the Fourth Ward on Martin Luther King Boulevard, I'm struck by the quantity of eerily battened windows of the long-closed establishments, now powdered and rouged with the autographs and warnings of malcontents. Overgrown trash-strewn lots and foreclosed and forlorn homes abound, interspersed with alarmingly busy alleyways. I keep my eyes ahead, briefly noticing movement in my periphery. Gone are the days of children walking to school and leisurely afternoon strolls to the market. Here, public family life is a veiled enigma, quietly situated behind deadbolts, iron bars and bulletproof glass.
I'm happy to see the coffee shop. The nature of these businesses means they are bustling at this hour, and the smells and sounds are a welcome respite. I wait in line behind harried business people checking their watches and cell phones, and order my coffee and a scrumptious looking croissant with pecans. I look around for a spot, and take up residence in the corner away from the windows, with my back facing the wall.
Taking a long sip of the molten coffee, I steel myself and dial Maureen.
Sunday, September 8, 2013
Week 2: Coherence; Action/Observation Descriptive Essay
Facebook is a voyeur's wet dream. All these uncurtained, giant bay windows bearing witness to the common people's daily lives. Free access to their most intimate moments and relationships. It is a compilation of the lion's share of mundane and prosaic drivel muddled with a gross quantity of infuriating blather (political, racist and sexist) designed to incense and aggravate even the most pronounced Buddhist.
And yet - as a self-professed and admitted people watcher - it's the digital, modern-day version of rubbernecking. I should preface this by saying, I have a large number of people, from all over the world, on my Facebook account that I don't know personally. Occasionally, for entertainment, I just read through my feed of status updates.
Iris has announced publicly this morning, "Im so DONE with my friggin family! U people need to mind your own damn busines!!!!!! Im a grown woman and I can do what i want and i dont need your permission. Why dont you just <expletive>!"
Okay, admittedly, she lost me at the first word. I had to re-read it four time to grasp the content. I understand venting as much as the next person, but I don't understand poor grammar and punctuation - that's simply unacceptable chaos. (Admittedly, I am a Language Arts snob.) Her profile picture was taken in her bathroom mirror - a young woman in a cropped, see-through neon yellow top, black push-up bra and imitation Catholic school wannabe miniskirt, a faux pout that would make a cichlid envious and flashing scary 'gang signs' from some arbitrary (and no doubt, deadly) gang in the bowels of Northeastern Minnesota. I'm hopeful she still has time to learn next year as Sophomore.
Moving on, Jennifer is selling her ex-boyfriends Mossberg ATR 30-06, Bolt Action, Synthetic stock with Nikon 3x9 Power scope. It's only been fired 10-15 times. It has a camo strap, and she is asking $300 - cash only please.
I'm left wondering what happened to Jennifer's ex, and why it took 10-15 rounds.
Mike has posted, "I anyone has my daughter on FB, i sure would like to talk to her to please let her know i love and miss her."
Oy. Please Mike - go speak to your daughter in person. I'm never sure if the people who post these intentionally ambiguous comments are exhibiting symptoms of Munchausen Syndrome By Proxy or is merely desperate.
Two posts from the AmberAlert Facebook group about a sixteen year old and another fourteen year old missing.
These break my heart. Best use of FB to date. My heart is always hopeful for a happy-ending, but my head knows that statistically that is unlikely.
A post from a former culinary school student whining about how 'difficult' an instructor is for expecting them to make 12 different types of pastry - in only FOUR HOURS! Oh, the humanity!
A hilarious thought from one of those unknown people I added to my account: "Your body is a temple, not a drive-through!"
I may need to write that down for Health class for my daughter.
Jet-setting from my office, I occasionally learn something of a different culture. Mateja (from Slovenia) writes, "If you can't handel it, I will. If i won't, then at least I did my best." I can forgive the grammar and spelling issues, since English does not appear to be her first language. Apparently, though, dramatics are universal.
More often than not, I learn that people, worldwide, suffer from the same fears and frustrations, wants, needs and hopes - and Facebook allows us to connect with each other conspire, commiserate and verbally upchuck on our own terms, and for far less than the cost of therapy.
And yet - as a self-professed and admitted people watcher - it's the digital, modern-day version of rubbernecking. I should preface this by saying, I have a large number of people, from all over the world, on my Facebook account that I don't know personally. Occasionally, for entertainment, I just read through my feed of status updates.
Iris has announced publicly this morning, "Im so DONE with my friggin family! U people need to mind your own damn busines!!!!!! Im a grown woman and I can do what i want and i dont need your permission. Why dont you just <expletive>!"
Okay, admittedly, she lost me at the first word. I had to re-read it four time to grasp the content. I understand venting as much as the next person, but I don't understand poor grammar and punctuation - that's simply unacceptable chaos. (Admittedly, I am a Language Arts snob.) Her profile picture was taken in her bathroom mirror - a young woman in a cropped, see-through neon yellow top, black push-up bra and imitation Catholic school wannabe miniskirt, a faux pout that would make a cichlid envious and flashing scary 'gang signs' from some arbitrary (and no doubt, deadly) gang in the bowels of Northeastern Minnesota. I'm hopeful she still has time to learn next year as Sophomore.
Moving on, Jennifer is selling her ex-boyfriends Mossberg ATR 30-06, Bolt Action, Synthetic stock with Nikon 3x9 Power scope. It's only been fired 10-15 times. It has a camo strap, and she is asking $300 - cash only please.
I'm left wondering what happened to Jennifer's ex, and why it took 10-15 rounds.
Mike has posted, "I anyone has my daughter on FB, i sure would like to talk to her to please let her know i love and miss her."
Oy. Please Mike - go speak to your daughter in person. I'm never sure if the people who post these intentionally ambiguous comments are exhibiting symptoms of Munchausen Syndrome By Proxy or is merely desperate.
Two posts from the AmberAlert Facebook group about a sixteen year old and another fourteen year old missing.
These break my heart. Best use of FB to date. My heart is always hopeful for a happy-ending, but my head knows that statistically that is unlikely.
A post from a former culinary school student whining about how 'difficult' an instructor is for expecting them to make 12 different types of pastry - in only FOUR HOURS! Oh, the humanity!
A hilarious thought from one of those unknown people I added to my account: "Your body is a temple, not a drive-through!"
I may need to write that down for Health class for my daughter.
Jet-setting from my office, I occasionally learn something of a different culture. Mateja (from Slovenia) writes, "If you can't handel it, I will. If i won't, then at least I did my best." I can forgive the grammar and spelling issues, since English does not appear to be her first language. Apparently, though, dramatics are universal.
More often than not, I learn that people, worldwide, suffer from the same fears and frustrations, wants, needs and hopes - and Facebook allows us to connect with each other conspire, commiserate and verbally upchuck on our own terms, and for far less than the cost of therapy.
Nature Descriptive Essay (1)
I am a child of the Earth. I am most connected in the natural, non-human world. It's more than a preference or simple misanthrope; although those are both true of my personality to a degree. At my core - at a genetic level - I belong to the natural world.
When I am walking through the crisp woods toward the East end of my mother-in-law's fifty acres, the smells pitch and earth soften my temperament. The crunching of leaves from scurried movements and resonant bullfrog ballads don't unnerve me; on the contrary, they unwind muscles knotted from weeks and months 'away'. Even my breath slows-...in...and...out..., methodically, in unison with the wind and trees.
I have learned to find my nature wherever I am.
At present, I am cocooned on my front porch, listening to the understated roar of pouring rain. Sirens wail in the far distance, the sparrow's descant of the modern day. Truck tires cling to the wet roads, the rolling and ripping leaf crunching that is the sounds of movement in the brick and mortar world.
Author Hugo Hamilton once said, "Maybe your country is only a place you make up in your own mind.
Something you dream about and sing about. Maybe it's not a place on the
map at all, but just a story full of people you meet and places you
visit, full of books and films you've been to. " I think 'country' equates to home. Home is not where you were born, your country of origin, or even where your parents are - it is where you long to be. It is where you feel complete, a sense of being whole, part of something greater and yet simpler.
Nature is my home.
Friday, September 6, 2013
Introduction (ENG262)
Who am I?
It seems like such a simple question; and yet - not simple at all. Who am I? The long and complicated answer: that depends. The short (and accurate) answer: I am me.
I am many things to many people, including myself. On any given day I am styled as Mother, Wife, Sister, Grandmother, a Friend. I am also given the epithet (at less glorious times) of employee, neighbor, homeschooler, shopper, driver, gardener, crafter, chef, cleaning woman, writer, handywoman, nursemaid, and on rare occasion - grumpy bitch.
I am many things. Who I am? I am a compilation of years of self-learning, of streetwise ingenuity, of abuse at the hands of others and of self. I am many, many years of education, in a variety of settings, from a variety of instructors. I am a consortium of ancestral histories, selectively handed down and reiterated. I am experienced, mature (yikes!) and foolish more often than I care to admit.
But in the end, I am everything to a couple, and something to more than a few - and that is exactly who I want to be.
It seems like such a simple question; and yet - not simple at all. Who am I? The long and complicated answer: that depends. The short (and accurate) answer: I am me.
I am many things to many people, including myself. On any given day I am styled as Mother, Wife, Sister, Grandmother, a Friend. I am also given the epithet (at less glorious times) of employee, neighbor, homeschooler, shopper, driver, gardener, crafter, chef, cleaning woman, writer, handywoman, nursemaid, and on rare occasion - grumpy bitch.
I am many things. Who I am? I am a compilation of years of self-learning, of streetwise ingenuity, of abuse at the hands of others and of self. I am many, many years of education, in a variety of settings, from a variety of instructors. I am a consortium of ancestral histories, selectively handed down and reiterated. I am experienced, mature (yikes!) and foolish more often than I care to admit.
But in the end, I am everything to a couple, and something to more than a few - and that is exactly who I want to be.
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