Minutemen

Last weekend, the family went on one of our illustrious “h-istor-ikes” in which we combine a walk through somewhere pretty with a walk through time. We did this often outside DC where there were plenty of Civil War battlefields to explore. Now that we’re in Boston, the h-istor-ikes have taken a Revolutionary War turn, and our sojourn to the Minuteman trail in Lexington did not disappoint.

Colin and my historical interests break down along embarrassingly predictable gender lines. I want to know about the daily life: how did it feel to toil away in the summer sun wearing a long cotton gingham dress? What did it take to put a plate of food on the table? What was on that plate of food? Colin wants to know where the battle lines were drawn, who won and how.

Our guided trip down the Minutemen trail, with battle stories and actors in period dress fulfilled both our interests. Colin learned about the Minute Man who sent his servant back to the tavern to fetch his salmon even with the British breathing down their necks, and I learned that everyone, including children, drank alcoholic cider instead of water which was polluted from livestock. Caleb enjoyed drawing in the dirt with sticks, saying “hi” to passing bikes and yelling at the odd dog.

We learned that each town at the time had a militia of all able-bodied males from ages 16-60, but that the Minutemen were an elite corps of the strongest men who trained weekly and were ready to fight in literally a minute. The cause for fighting, as told by our guides, was weighted with explanations of patriotism and lofty idealism. These settlers were fighting imperialist Great Britain for their rights and their land. Though, of course, if their efforts had failed, someone in British garb would be telling us about the unruly and ungrateful colonists beleaguerer the brave fighting Brits. But I’d still be interested in the buttons on their uniforms, Colin in their military strategy and Caleb would still be happy drawing with sticks in the dirt oblivious to the history but closest to what started it all: the land.

Playing hooky

With Caleb’s bedtime around 7:00 PM, it simply isn’t worth it to pay a babysitter the going rate of $12 - $15/hour to sit on our couch and watch TV so that Colin and I can wolf down a dinner and a fall asleep at the movie theater. We can do that at home. (A digression: I was paid $2/hour to babysit in the mid-90s, and my inflation calculator tells me that wage should have risen to about $3.25/hour in today’s dollars. So, I resent it on those grounds as well.)

So, we’ve hit on the idea of a day-te. (Similar to the frugality inspired stayte of prior posts.) We’re paying for daycare during the day anyway, so why not move our nighttime tryst several hours early and have a daytime date?

We waited for the weather to predict a warm, dry, sunny day and then I took a day off work. After dropping Caleb at daycare we were free!! We felt liberated, sneaky and a bit giddy all at the same time to be wearing flip flops and bathing suits amid the suits and cell phones and to have a full free day ahead of us without fretting over nap times, planning meals and packing diapers.

Our first stop was a leisurely breakfast at a local crepe place where we luxuriated in slowly drinking gourmet coffee and talking about life like a new couple.

Then we were off to legendary Walden Pond where we parked ourselves in a secluded woody spot at the edge of the pond, just steps from the original site of Thoreau’s cabin. Hard to imagine a more relaxing spot than the one that inspired the whole of transcendentalism.

Perhaps in effort to feel like we somehow deserved this scene, we both went for brisk trail runs, got nice and sweaty, and took intensely refreshing dips in the pond. We paddled out in the middle of the water and wrapped our arms around each other, taking in the blue sky and rolling tree-line backdrop – creating exactly the scene I was imagining when I first conceived this day-te.

Back to our little cove, we dried off in the sun while reading. I can’t overextoll the pleasure of reading a book you enjoy in an environment of your choosing for as long as you want with no threat of interruption. You only truly appreciate this gift when it becomes so improbable; and I drunk it in with a Nick Hornby book, How to Be Good, that is funny, engaging and unexpectedly thought-provoking – the very definition of a good beach… um pond read. We were periodically joined by other daytime pond revellers who all seemed to be retired and inordinately happy.

One of these fellow pond-goers tipped us off to a nearby farm that sells fresh produce, homemade pies and sandwiches. So, we ended our date with a picnic overlooking fields of flowers and vegetables and munching on a baked creation called a “magic bar.” A fitting ending to a pretty magical day.

Primal Scream

One of Caleb’s favorite activities is to puff out his chest with a big intake of air and then let it all out with a powerfully joyful scream. He does this on the changing table, in the bath, while kicking a ball around the living room. Sometimes I join in the fun in a kind of call-and-response yelling match (Caleb: “ahhh!” Me: “Oh yea? Ahhh!” Caleb: AHHH!!!”), before I remind myself that we have both up and downstairs neighbors who might not appreciate our escalating scream contest.

Why do hair cuts always fall on good hair days?

Women definitely know what I’m talking about. After weeks of bad hair days, your hair looks unexpectedly fetching on the day of your hair cut appointment. Bouncy and shiny and falling in all the right and flattering places, as if to mock your decision to change things up with a hair cut.

What’s going on here? Is it just some cruel hand of fate taunting you, making you second guess what should have been a simple hair sacrifice? Or is it all about perspective – just when you risk changing something you appreciate it in its current state?

I’ve been thinking about this “hair cut on a good hair day” phenomenon, especially as we contemplate leaving our city. Bowing to the “cruel fate” hypothesis, I’m guessing that the amount of fun we have here is in direct proportion to the likelihood of our leaving. My cynical pessimistic side reasons that the more we enjoy our time in Boston, the greater our likelihood of leaving. If that’s the case, then we should really start packing our bags.

What have you done lately?

“What have you done lately?” was Mrs. Anderson’s favorite question. As my high school Western Civilization teacher, she’d pose that question to the class after expounding on the achievements of some child king or teenage military hero.

“What have you done lately” (drawn out emphasis on the ‘you’) she’d ask us with a toothy Cheshire grin, a playfully accusatory look peering over her bifocals. I suppose we were meant to feel already underaccomplished at age 16 or merely that much more impressed with the exploits of these historical figures. The way she said it made it a fun and highly imitate-able catchphrase, and we’d mock mimic her in the hallways between classes.

But that question, “what have you done lately?” with its implied response of “not as much as that guy” has continued, for better or worse, to ring in my ears since then; and as I get older, the list of people more accomplished than me “at my age” has exploded. Some day it will include presidents and Nobel laureates.

I should feel pretty self satisfied. I’m well liked and respected where I work; I have a loving family and good health. But there are just too many highly accomplished people around there messing this up, making me feel underachieving in comparison. Facebook is no help. Last week, I was reminded through this oh so helpful platform that two old friends had just published books and another was interviewed as an expert on NPR.

Why do their accomplishments accomplish making me feel so underaccomplished? Does everyone feel this way?

Probably not highly evolved and self actualized people. Probably not people who never expected much in the first place. I suppose my occasional self-disappointment malaise is the downside of growing up with loving and encouraging parents who told me I could (should?) achieve the world.

I’ve read that, despite the gloomy weather, Denmark has the happiest people of any country. Why? Not the generous social programs and high standard of living. The happy-ologists report that the Danes are happier because they don’t expect a whole lot and then are quite satisfied with outcome.

But I did not grow up in Denmark. I grew up in a corner of Horatio Alger’s Keeping-Up-with-the Joneses America filled with doctors and lawyers. And with a teacher who kept asking, “What have you done lately”?

Ahhh... Boston

This morning I learned that, according to a new report, Boston is among top most expensive cities in the US. Not really a newsflash, but definitely add that to the pile of things we won’t miss if we move.

Here’s a little something to throw on the pile of things we will miss if we move:

Last night, Colin picked up Caleb and I from daycare/work and instead of heading home we decided to take a little walk. Government Center, the neighborhood in which I work, is wasteland of Soviet-inspired architecture and concrete, so we started out our walk with low expectations.

But this is Boston, so after a few minutes we found ourselves approaching the State House, just in time to duck in from the rain. And what a place to “duck” into! Where else can you take a post workday walk and end up walking the exquisite gold and marble halls of a building as old as our nation?

Once inside, Caleb made an enthusiastic beeline for the marble steps and, chasing him, we found ourselves smack in the middle of a session of state Congress. The dense fog of power hit us before we could even see the politicians roaming the halls, looking important, schmoozing and shaking hands. The hall is open to the public, but was full mostly of tall, tanned and graying pols oozing self-importance. Given that we were accompanied by a quite adorable baby, we were the target of some of this well honed schmoozing and were greeted with gratuitous smiles and chummy comments about Caleb like, “the reps are getting taller each year. Har har har!” I guess kissing babies is kind of part of the job description.

With the rain clearing and having had our fill of vicarious political excitation, we exited to the closest park, the Boston Commons, a 50 acre rolling expanse home to ponds, swan-shaped boats, ornate gardens and live performances, which also happens to be the oldest park in the country. There’s an old timey carousel for goodness sake, which gave Caleb a good old fashioned thrill.

Our stomachs grumbling, we walked, passed the balcony upon which the Declaration of Independence was first read and the and storied Faneuil Hall, and landed in…. Italy.

You can’t throw a rock in the Italian North End of Boston, without hitting a quaint Italian ristorante covered in vines and candles and filled with the din of Italian chatter and the aroma of fresh made sauce. Walking only a block, we passed probably a dozen enticing places, landed on a tiny trattoria with outdoor seating and proceeded to enjoy some of the freshest, most flavorful pasta this side of Naples. Dinner never lasts long with a toddler, so we soon found ourselves roaming the streets inevitably landing in one of the many Gelateria to get a cold treat for the rest of our warm walk to the train station to catch the 7:30 train back to Medford.

Keith, the ticket taker who jokes with Caleb and gives him old tickets to play with during our normal commute home, was working the later train and looked surprised to see us. “You’re coming home late today.” “Impromptu date night.” we replied as we descended to stairs to our short walk home.

File all of that under “what I’ll miss about Boston if we move.”

Talkin bout a resolution

At our house we call it “pulling a Trader Joes.” This is the phenomenon of getting inordinately excited and committed to a new, seemingly life changing idea and then watching it die as life’s commitments get in the way. It’s why we simultaneously have a growing mutli-billion dollar weight loss industry in a country with a more fat people than you can shake a Nutrishake at. There’s no threat that the weight loss gurus will succeed their way out of business. Not with all of us quitters out there.

We call this a “Trader Joes” because Colin and I vowed to do our shopping there after a particularly enrapturing experience with inexpensive prepared food and bizarrely friendly check out staff. Sure, it was much less convenient than our normal grocery store, but what a better experience! “We should always come here!”

Despite our initial enthusiasm, we repeated the experience exactly zero times. Stop and Shop was walkable and cheap, and we’re lazy.

For this blog, I vowed publicly, even if no one was listening, to write a little bit each day. Lately, I’ve averaged one post a month. Pathetic.

I know the root of this problem. Instead of confidently posting a quick description or rant and hitting “publish,” I expound on an issue at length and from all angles I can think of. I fear (but fail at) posting something that might offend or fail a grammar test and rework it. I won’t post something unless I like it, and I’m paralytically critical of myself. All this stymies progress and deters me from even starting most days.

So, the point is in order to reach a goal, you need to bite off reasonable chunks. I go to the gym pretty regularly – but only because it is downstairs from my office. If I’m not entirely in the mood, I still go and just do a short workout. There are no “transportation costs” allowing me easy excuses. On busy days, I do excuse myself, but overall it’s part of my routine because it’s manageable.

So, I’m going to make this blogging thing more manageable by doing more regular short posts. Every once in a while I’ll probably expound on something at length. (I’m restraining myself right now from delving into all the other factors that make goals attainable: having someone hold you accountable, early and observable success, interim reachable goals, making the tasks something you enjoy…). Maybe the invisible reader will hold me to this new task…

Beach day

This weekend, being desperate for a respite from the heavy and sticky heat, the family took a short trip to a small lake near our house to dip our overheated bodies in some cool water. Less than a mile from our house, Sandy beach is the size of large backyard, and looks over a tree-lined lake filled with small fish and dotted with sailboats. There are shaddy paths around the lake for bikers and runners and just behind the “beach” is a playground and soccer field. We congratulated ourselves for living in such close proximity to such a find.

When we arrived early in the morning the beach was fairly empty, giving it the feel of a campground oasis. There was a family of Brazilians playing in the water and a grumpy old groundskeeper cleaning up Canadian geese poop, who treated us to his musings on illegal immigration. (“It’s just like the Canadian geese. We let them in and protect them and then all they do is shit all over the place.”)

We shook this off and proceeded to cajole our water-averse son into the refreshing lake water.
Caleb remained stubborn in his anti-water stance and stood watch at the shore as dad and I frantically tried to make our case for its merits.

“Look Caleb, the other kids are having so much fun in the water!”

“See? Mommy’s feet are wet and it feels SOOOO good!”

“Look it’s your favorite toy boat sailing on the water! Come catch it!”

All of this was met with furious and defiant head shakes.

The whole scene was described (unprompted) by the curmudgeonly groundskeeper thusly: “Your wife is going to turn that child into a sissy.”

I suppose he would rather I had thrown him in, trial by ordeal-style, to see if he would sink. “Too bad about that kid. But he sure was brave.”

Oblivious to the name calling, Caleb actually had a fun time standing at the shore, screaming at the sailboats and birds and telling the other children that the ball we were playing with was “mine!”

All this is huge progress compared to our last visit to the beach, in which Caleb spent his time either screaming to go home or in the safe cocoon of a beach tent. Next visit we are hoping to actually meet the water. Someday he may even swim in it!

Alternate Realities and the Art of Happiness

Not just because of recent island-based, sci-fi, TV dramas, I’ve been thinking a lot of alternate realities. How the decisions we make shoot us down one path or another. Like if you had only gotten into that creative writing seminar, you’d have a plum reporting job, or if you’d gone on that camping trip to the Rockies, you’d have a different life partner. Would your life be better? Would you be any happier in those realities?

Or would whatever it is that makes you “you,” push you to pretty much where you are now with only slight differences? This is the “course correction” hypothesis. Sure, maybe you’d be with a different mate, but he’d share pretty much the same characteristics as your current spouse, given those are the qualities you, in all your “you-ness,” are drawn to. Is your fate pretty much sealed by a combination of your personal proclivities and upbringing?

Could it be that some number-crunching social scientist, given enough data on the circumstances of our birth and our abilities, could predict with reasonable accuracy where we’d end up. Born with an aptitude for science, introverted relational style and of upper-income parents with liberal politics and a connection to a religious community, will end up…… (peep peep, chug chug, chrunch chrunch ….) in a stable relationship working as a chemical engineer and vacationing in the Berkshires. Maybe you’d deviate a bit from this ending, but not much. Or would you?

Maybe there is truly enough randomness over a lifetime to put you farther off that course. Could be that the randomness in our lives accumulates to offer vastly different alternate futures. I’m sure Malcolm Gladwell could write a convincing essay on either option.

None of this is anything new. The debate between chance and choice has been the stuff of religious and philosophical musings (and late night pot-induced dorm room rap sessions) and the meat of great novels for centuries. What I’ve become obsessed with is wondering is if I’d be happier in any of these alternative realities.

My husband likes to remind me that I suffer from the “grass is always greener” syndrome, and this is unequivocally true. Objectively, I’m a pretty lucky gal. I have a reasonably fulfilling, low-stress and high-paid job, a loving husband, healthy baby and all around supportive friends and family. But that doesn’t stop me from thinking I could have it better, if only…

You see, every once in a while I run into those people. You know, the kind that ooze self contentment and emanate joy. They love their lives and feel lucky every day. They smile at strangers with actual sincerity, and brush off frustrations easily. Is that because the fates, or the consequences of their birth, or whatever drives their life’s trajectory put them in the most optimal outcome for them? Might they be less happy in another job, city, family? Or are they the types who no matter where they land would have a sunny disposition?

I need to know this because, like I said, I’m lucky. But I don’t ooze joy. And I want to. I want to be one of those people who feel happy to be exactly where they are. These people fascinate and frustrate me. Are they this way because of their perspective or their position. And which is easier to control? A new perspective or a new position? I guess that depends on who and where you are.

Victims of our own what now?

Victims of our own what now? Success. Yes. Success

Let me explain. In the last week, I’ve read/seen three news items that have led me to examine more critically my tendency to condemn the modern and to romanticize the past.

You see, the phrase “Mo’dernity, Mo’problems” has always wrung true to my ears. I’m quick to point out all the ways in which new technology robs us of our possible virtues and to look towards “indigenous” cultures for guidance on how I’m supposed to be living my life – how I’m supposed to parent and eat and commune with something larger than myself.

On Monday I read an article in Foreign Policy arguing that the organic, local, slow food movement is the wrong answer for most of the world’s poorest. In fact, we should be grateful for the newer and safer fertilizers and pesticides, whose antecedents sparked a food revolution making it possible to feed the world several times over and to endure the inevitable periodic droughts and floods. The author points out that the poorest of subsistence farmers couldn’t eat more organically, locally or prepare food more slowly than they do but that this is thankless, arduous and sometimes fruitless work which cements their place at the margin of existence.

Last night I saw a PBS special on the vaccine controversy. Despite protecting the population from 16 known diseases, many of them killers, vaccines have recently become a bogeyman for the more organically inclined and parents of autistic children looking desperately for answers. And these outcries have been stubbornly resistant to an overwhelming preponderance of evidence contradicting their assertions.

On Tuesday I read an article in Harpers about the cadre of die-hards dedicated to uncovering the science showing that EMF waves, mainly from cell phones, are leading to a proliferation of brain tumors.

We make all these arguments: pesticides bad, cell phones bad, vaccines bad, from a place of relative comfort and near total amnesia about the original problems that these advances made disappear. The terrifyingly indiscriminate nature of the polio scourge and the physical ache of hunger are simply not a part of our collective consciousness. Cell phones certainly haven’t helped feed the hungry and heal the sick, but they have connected us in a way that is easily taken for granted. Gone are the days of wondering why your dinner companion (or even child) is late or stopping long distance phone calls before they get “too expensive.” Would we go back to a world without cell phones?

This is not to diminish the very real concerns with the environmental impact of chemical agents on our food and therefore bodies and the unknown long-term threat of new electronic technology. The fear of vaccines causes autism is probably the best example of outsized concern with a perceived threat compared to a proven benefit. But even here, consumer vigilance has steadily made vaccines safer.

I guess I’m just taking time and see the world through an antique monocle and to be grateful for all those things which I now have the luxury to complain about.

Wondering about Weaning

My son is now nearly 15 months old; technically, no longer a baby but a toddling toddler with a toothy smile and a growing vocabulary of, well… not exactly English, but he gets his point across. It’s kind of a baby-English creole. “Ka” is cup and “ga” is milk and “ka ka” is cracker. He calls me “pa pa,” but I know what he means. Point is, he’s a little person now.

Maybe that’s why I’m starting to feel a bit sheepish about the fact that he’s still nursing.

He loves it. I love it. It’s great for him and a sure fire way to help him sleep. I don’t see it ending any time soon as he hates milk (of the non-human variety) and has never soothed himself with either a pacifier or a bottle. That boy is a purist.

But he’s the only kid over 10 months still nursing in his daycare, and when we nurse in public, people are starting to make comments. “Oh. So, he’s still nursing?” (attempt at self-censoring, but ultimately...) “He’s getting kind of big for that, huh?” My husband looks at me worryingly now when we nurse and tells me that “we” don’t want him to be nursing past 2 years of age. I nod reflexively in agreement. It does seem weird. But why?

Is it because breasts are so sexualized in this culture that when our little ones start acting more childlike than babylike, breastfeeding just seems a bit odd? Is it because we’re simply not accustomed to the image? Or, alternatively is it because nursing toddlers is not what we humans are meant to be doing? Stripped of our cultural taboos and expectations, what would be the “natural age” of weaning anyway?

I did a little digging and comparisons with our closest genetic relatives, who we can assume are freed of our cultural constraints, seems to indicate that the “natural” age of weaning is actually quite late by our standards. Here are some of the arguments:

• Larger mammals nurse their offspring until they have quadrupled their birth weight. In humans, quadrupling of birth weight occurs between 2.5 and 3.5 years, usually.
• For chimpanzees and gorillas, the two primates closest in size to humans and also the most closely genetically related, nurse their offspring for six times the length of gestation. In humans, that would be: 4.5 years.
• Non-human primates (monkeys and apes) are weaned at the same time they were getting their first permanent molars. In humans, that would be: 5.5-6.0 years.

For those who balk at inter-species comparisons, other research has found that in societies where children are allowed to nurse "as long as they want" they usually self-wean, with no arguments or trauma, between 3 and 4 years of age. I found one study that looked at American women who practiced extended breastfeeding and “child-led” weaning, and it found that the average age their youngest child weaned was 3.0 years old (older children were weaned earlier due to the arrival of a baby sibling).

But this is clearly not the norm in the U S of A. The American Academy of Pediatricians officially recommends breast feeding until the age of one, even though the World Health Organization recommends at least two years of breast feeding for women worldwide. Could it be that Western cultural expectations and practices are out of sync with the natural order of things? Most likely.

But maybe that’s OK.

We generally don’t live the lives of our more nature-dependent ancestors and global cohabitants. Earlier weaning allows women to assert themselves more freely in the workplace and to socialize more flexibly with friends and family, and the science shows that the health benefits of breast feeding taper off as the baby gets older. I guess at the end of the day, it should just be a choice.

But it doesn’t seem so much like a choice to me. My sister, who breast fed her son for 26 months, suffered serious derision, disdain and disgust from people, including those who are meant to support and love her unconditionally most – her family. And she’s fortunate enough to live in a community of yoga-practicing, organic baby-food making, co-sleeping moms, who generally support the practice.

So, where does that leave me? People ask me when I plan on weaning him, and it makes me feel like a bit of a flake, because I don’t have any “plans” per se. But I can’t really picture doing it anytime soon. Complete strangers will interfere in very few aspects of your life, but the decision to, or not to, and for how long to breast feed, like so many parenting decisions, is treated as fair game for intervention. I have to admit, I fear those interactions.

I guess I should ignore all that noise and make the best decision for my baby and my family. But, as my frantic search for parenting guidance from friends, books and the Web indicates, I don’t always have a good handle on what that is. I like to trust my instincts, but it’s hard to ignore the loud and pervasive messages, which seem to contradict my gut. It’s hard to swim upstream. But I guess that’s what your kids look for you to do sometimes.

Teaparty Like It's 1953

I was thinking of taking the month of April off from writing on this blog. I’ve been uninspired, underwhelmed and under the weather. But yesterday I had a truly blog-worthy experience observing a tea party rally on the Boston Commons over my lunch break, so brace yourself for a long one!

While it wasn’t exactly the Neo-Nazis marching in Skokie, a tea party rally in the heart of Boston was a little like marching into enemy territory. So, I wasn’t surprised to see a thriving counter-tea party presence made up mainly of left wing college students from area universities. Some of my favorite signs from this camp: “I Hate Taxes and Government so I’m Moving to Somalia”, “bla bla bla SOCIALIST bla bla bla FASCIST” and the oh so subtle “MIT Nucular Engineers for Palin.” But it made for an interesting mix.

I was pleasantly surprised not to see any patently racist signs from the TPers. I know there’s been an effort to discipline that element or at least tone it down for the Boston run. In fact, there was a defensive posture against claims of racism and I saw one sign reading, “I’m not a racist. I just disagree politically.” Fair enough point.

I went to observe the rally out of intense curiosity and attempted an open mind. My political opinions aside, this movement has gained serious traction and I wanted to see who these people who take time from work and travel across the country and protest things like health care for all really looked like and what they thought.

I missed the headliner, Sarah Palin, but was in time for a rousing tirade by former SNL comedian turned nutjob Victoria Jackson. You remember her. She generally played a ditzy blond in the sketch comedy show, a role she has apparently adopted in real life. Palin’s rants against “Left Coast” celebrities staying out of politics notwithstanding, they’ve accepted Jackson into the fold as long as she parrots Limbaugh and Beck and sings songs with her ukulele (I wish I were kidding) about the communist takeover of America. Her speech had a “throw out the crooks” theme and she riffed on Barack Obama’s myriad communist connections and mimicked the outrageous claims that "Obamacare" would end up euthanizing grandma. It was a lot more laughable than anything she did with SNL.

But most of my time was spent in the middle of a heated debate between an earnest and not totally crazy TPer. He genuinely seemed willing to engage in a debate and conceded plenty of points and I did the same. He agreed that fiscal imprudence was also the providence of the Bush administration and I agreed that Social Security and Medicaid were on an unsustainable path.

But in the end, he had a surprising amount of detailed information on the evils of communism, a history lesson which seemed entirely beside the point. Yes, communism bad. And??? He wasn’t able to convincingly articulate how any Obama policies are taking us into that direction, despite that being the general conclusion of the TP movement.

The TP/Limbaugh/Hannity/Beck argument seems to rest on two points: 1) Obama actually is a communist, a claim supported by tenuous connections of friends of his grandfather’s, his study of Saul Alinsky, his work helping poor people in Chicago as well as some outright lies. 2) His policies, such as “taking over” the banks and the auto industry are the stuff of communism. This, despite the fact that Bush propped up our steel industry and the bank bailout was initiated under Bush and supported by economists on the right. But that doesn’t matter. It’s the fear and passion that such associations arouse.

And this is a smart strategy. Re-fight the cold war, since that really energized people, especially those on the conservative side of the culture wars. Let’s just make the new villain Barack Obama. Effective, but absolutely and entirely surreal. The “down with Communism” refrain was so pervasive that I wondered out loud if this rally was somehow happening in 1953? I thought the country was on to the War on Terror era, but apparently we are still fighting the Red Menace 30 years after the collapse of the Soviet Union.

Anyway, back to my attempt at a civil debate. This was going well until two clearly incensed lefty college students entered the fray. One walked up to this guy screaming, “Oh, yeah? You don’t want taxes and government!?!? Why don’t you go to Somalia? They don’t have roads and everyone walks around with AK-47s. Looks pretty good there, huh?”

While I agreed with her on substance, the tenor of her argument actually made me want defend my hapless TPer. But he defended himself quite well asking her not to use sarcasm to make her point. This calmed things down enough to have one of the craziest debates I’ve ever heard.
These sides were so far apart on issues they cared about that they found themselves in large part talking over one another. I guess this shouldn’t be too surprising. People go to these rallies to shout and be heard, not to listen patiently to the argument of an opposing side.

Here’s an exchange that exemplifies this dynamic: TPer mentioned a recent TV ad in which Pepsi, Coke and Dr. Pepper proudly announce that they are pulling sugared drinks from schools. He used this as a weird example of the encroachment on our freedom of choice. His argument seemed to be that it all starts with these little infringements and pretty soon we’re living in a Communist state. Another TPer who had entered the fray to help tip the scales added her outrage that trans fats have been banned in New York and now she doesn’t have the freedom to eat an Oreo! It’s an outrage! (I reminded her that Oreo now makes a trans fat free cookie, but that didn’t seem to help.)

Lefty started with a reasonable counter that an individual’s choice to gorge on sugar results in the rest of us paying for their eventual diabetes treatment, so it’s not as “individual” of a choice as it might seem. But she heard the word “Coke” and couldn’t help herself from asking the TPers if they knew that Coke was now displacing 3 million people in China by building a damn. And, by the way, people are being raped and enslaved in the cobalt minds of Democratic Republic of the Congo so we can have cell phone batteries. Did you ever think about that?? Huh? It’s the corporations you should be fighting, not the government! TPer paused and said, “Well, I didn’t know that. Maybe I won’t drink Coke anymore...” This response really took me aback and I give him credit for an open mind. Maybe there’s an alliance in the making here?

But that was a blip. In general, crazy assertions that the environmental movement is bent on euthanasia and population control on one side dove unwittingly into diatribes on access to contraception in developing countries. Assertions of the coming cultural genocide in Europe due to Muslim immigration were met with discussions of unchecked corporate greed. Each side quickly turned into a predictable parody of itself. I guess I shouldn’t have expected any better.


On my walk home, I contemplate my original question: What animates these Tea Partiers? Other than their constant attention to the provocateurs at Fox, what is it about these arguments that ignites their passions?

Clearly the bad economy is fertile ground for scapegoating and finger pointing, and those in power are fitting targets. But the broadest underlying theme of their complaints appeared to be the following: We, the hard working Americans, don’t want to foot the bill for people looking for a handout. And that’s what “socialism” or “communism” means to them: taking away my freedoms or income so that some lazy undeserving poor person can get something for free.

This is really the only way you can argue against a basic right to health care (in essence, life itself) for all: if those rights somehow infringe on what you already have and those new beneficiaries are underserving. And if they don’t look like you or share your experiences, it’s even easier to make assumptions about their worthiness of “charity.” It’s this underlying belief in America as a pure meritocracy, in which people get what they deserve from an even playing field, that makes things like progressive taxation and securing basic needs for all so odious to the right.

That is, until those on the right start hurting and their argument falls on its face and the logical contradictions become head spinning. I saw one sign that read: “We want jobs and income, not bailouts for banks” Really? You want your government to ensure jobs and income? Then move to Russia, commie.

Outraged over the outrage

ARGH. I’ve been home sick for the past few days which has allowed me time to stew not only in my flu-like symptoms, but in my outrage over the outrage coming from (to borrow from M. Colbert) the Teaparty Foxpublicans.

Part of what makes this country great is that we do have a free and unfettered public forum for debate. It’s a big diverse country and we have principled ideological differences in how it should be run. All this is messy, but healthy and good. I’m a liberal, but I truly believe that real conservatives have a lot of good ideas about fiscal and personal responsibility and the importance of ensuring free markets to create growth.

However, these are not the loudest arguments coming from the right anymore. What’s coming from that camp is not reasoned debate, but fear mongering and hyperbole tinged with racism or fear of the “other.” And it’s increasingly being regurgitated and amplified by even the main stream media. I’m not an historian, but I can’t think of another time when such a vocal and sincerely angry political group has been so blatantly misinformed.

Let’s take some of their major fears/criticism:

1. We’re mortgaging our future to an unsustainable fiscal path. Here is their strongest point. In fact, I agree. We are on an unsustainable fiscal path – largely because of Social Security and Medicare. Fair enough. What I don’t understand is why there is such vehement outrage about this now? Bush started his tenure with the first surplus we’ve had in decades and then ran record deficit for most of his years in office. Where was the outcry from these supposed fiscal purists then?

True, we’ve increased spending during the current economic crisis, but that’s because the two levers you have at the federal level to spur economic growth is cutting interest rates and spending. We couldn’t cut rates any lower than zero, so were left with only the option of spending. Economics from the left to right agreed on this point. So, while concern over fiscal unsustainability is a fair point, the timing and vehemence from this group is suspicious to say the least.

2. Health care (“Obamacare”) entails a government takeover. Hardly. There are valid criticisms of the bill from all sides. It’s long, complicated and the result of a highly contentious parliamentary process. But a “government takeover” is far from the truth. Here’s a newsflash: This bill closely is pretty much what the Republicans proposed in 1994 as an alternative to Clinton’s attempt at health care. There is no public option, but a free market “exchange” of health insurance plans. These mischaracterizations and lies started with “death panels” and just kept spinning out of control until the whole conversation was poisoned and serious criticisms were lost in the shuffle.

3. Obama is a Socialist who wants big government and is soft on terrorism. This one really raises my hackles. Let’s just look at the facts. He increased our presence in Afghanistan. He has kept military commissions and extraordinary renditions to the ire of human rights activists on the left. Despite promises to close Guantanamo it remains open. He implemented a large tax targeted finally to the middle class. In fact, unlike his predecessor, he risked alienating his base in many of these decisions. He has taken unpopular but pragmatic decisions and sought consensus on a range of issues. Any reasoned analysis of the guy would find the “socialist” moniker laughably preposterous. But, still, there’s a broad swath of the population that seems to sincerely believe, despite all evidence to the contrary, that Obama has some secret plan for a Socialist takeover. The extent of this misinformation and the fury it inspires is plain dangerous for our democracy.

And these people are seriously spitting mad. Just this morning I heard that at least 10 Democrat Congressmen have received threats from people filled with rage over the passing of health care reform.

What did Congress do to inspire this venom? Did Congress decide to send your children to war? To take away your precious guns? To even raise your taxes? No. They passed a watered down health care bill that requires insurance companies to do what most have long wanted and to eventually require everyone to enter the risk pool to lower costs. There’s no public option. There’s even an effort to contain costs and control the deficit. So, yes. I can see why you’d want to shoot your Congressperson over such a thing.

This is serious insanity.

I hope you’re proud of yourself Roger Ailes.

St. Patty's Day in Beantown

St. Patrick’s Day forces you to contemplate such questions as, “Who was St. Patrick, and what should we learn from him?” and “Why do we celebrate St. Patrick’s day on March 17th?” to which Boston loudly answers “Who the hell cares? Pass the Guinness!”

I don’t want to paint a characterture of the place, but outside of Ireland, Boston is a pretty swell place to celebrate the Irish (or whatever it is we’re meant to be commemorating on St. Patty’s day). Coming from Chicago, where we literally paint the river green and have an epic annual parade immortalized by Ferris Beuller (thank you John Hughes), I’m accustom to a bit of a celebration. But Bostonians seem to take this a bit further, and a bit more personally.

It’s not the city-sponsored events, but the general “spirit” of the holiday expressed by a steadily drunker population. By 9 AM the larger of the Irish bars had already opened the taps, and by noon stray celebrants could be seen stumbling into the street. And this is in the normally quite staid business district, so I only imagine the scene in the more “fun” parts of town.

Almost to a person, my entire office donned at least one green item of clothing, the purists were green head to toe. There was a leprechaun loose in Caleb’s daycare who had been leaving little green footprints all over the tiny tables and chairs for days, and for whom the pre-schoolers excitedly set an elaborate trap. Boston natives warned me that the afternoon T trains were sure to be full of liquored up party-goers (and comers), and one person told me she was opting to just walk home to avoid the ruckus.

For some reason all of this reminded me of a Simpsons episode that parodied the typical St. Patrick’s day parade as a day where we pay homage to the Irish by getting drunk and fighting (an ironic “Irish Need Not Apply" sign hangs subtly in the background of the celebration).

Rantings of an old coot

Having a baby forces you to think a lot about all the ways that the world they will inhabit will differ from the world you grew up in. I was looking at Caleb’s toy telephone complete with a banana-shaped receiver resting on a large box and attached with a long cord, baring no resemblance to the cell phone that now covers its duties. I’m sure when he learns to talk he’ll ask me what it is. When he gets older he may even shake his head pityingly at the thought of his young parents carrying on conversations strapped to that corded instrument like some kind of leashed animal.

But while our corded phones kept us to a 10 yard radius, they also kept us from multi-tasking and allowed us to cultivate an ability to focus and pay attention. Cell phones, easily used while doing just about anything – shopping, driving, or (thank you Paris Hilton) even having sex – contribute to our shrinking attention spans.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how amid all the increased convenience, we are losing some of the “soft skills” we used to have when navigating the world wasn’t so easy. At the risk of sounding like an old coot, here are some of the things our world taught us, but that Caleb may not know as well how to do:

1. Wait. This one is obvious. Our modern world is practically defined by attention grabbing conveniences that promote multi-tasking and instant gratification. Fast answers, fast friending, fast news cycles, fast forward through commercials… I recently heard that today’s 5 year old has the attention span of a 3 year old from the 1970s.

2. Not know something. How many conversations meander their way to some question that no one seems to know the answer to. (When did daylight savings start? Where did the expression “mind your ps and qs come from?...) only for someone to whip out an ipod, link to Wikipedia, and declare the response. What on earth did we do when questions hung out there unanswered? Were we more comfortable with not knowing? More creative in finding the answers or remembering them ourselves?

3. Fold an awkwardly sized newspaper to a readable size or wash newsprint off his hands.

4. Know how to get anywhere. With the advent of GPS and mapquest, we really don’t need a mental map of our surroundings anymore. I was always astounded when, as a kid, we took family vacations to places my parents visited years before and they would correctly remember that Broad Street cuts the city in half and the numbered streets go north to south, while the tree-named streets go east to west.
We spent a good part of our driving vacations gazing into Rand McNally maps of the United States and figuring out that we had just crossed to the half way point in Ohio. No longer. Whether on foot or in a car, GPS can tell us how many miles and minutes to go and we scarcely have to look away from whatever else we are doing.

5. Use Wite-out. Ah, the acrid smell, the tiny bristles, the tap tap tapping of your index finger to test for dryness. All a thing of the past, along with typing anything or writing anything formal by hand. No need.

6. Stare out the window. I have fond memories of staring out the window on a Sunday morning, contemplating my young life, while I waited for mom to scramble some eggs. But between hyper-scheduled childhoods, interactive toys and video games, multi-paned internet explorers and ubiquitous TV screens, we’re simply becoming less comfortable with doing nothing. The other day I got in a taxi looking forward to some unadulterated zoning out, only to find that a small screen had been installed to run cable news shows, heaven forbid we find ourselves with nothing to do.

7. Make small talk with adults. Growing up when I wanted to talk to my friends I would have to pass a gatekeeper, “Hi Mrs. Berger. Is Melissa there?” Cell phones cut out the middle man and the practice in politeness it created.

8. Get mail on the weekends. See http://www.csmonitor.com/Commentary/the-monitors-view/2010/0302/US-Postal-Service-no-more-Saturday-delivery

9. Memorize phone numbers. In high school knew the telephone numbers of my ten best friends as well as I knew their eye color. Today I barely know my own cell phone number. That responsibility lies with my cell phone itself.

10. Fix things. Our parents grew up around a thriving industry of repairmen. You could have your shoes resoled, your camera fixed, your vacuum cleaner repaired. Today, if something breaks, we just replace it with an equally destructible alternative.
Also, our “stuff” is a lot less intuitively fixable. You used to be able to tinker with things like radios and cars and, through trail and error, figure out how they work. Try that with an iPhone.

I fully appreciate that each generation laments the losses that the changing world brings, glorifies the past and disparages the new. I’m sure the advent of the TV, radio, and even butter churner were cause for similar hand wringing. And I’m sure there are unseen and unappreciated benefits to the new. I just want to pause, stare out the window a bit, and contemplate my own small family’s transition into the new….

Stayte

With a small baby at home, little disposable income for babysitters, and the nearest relative a plane ride away, Colin and I spend most of our weekend nights at home. We do the bulk of our socializing during the day and have the occasional dinner party after Little C goes to sleep, but romantic dinners out are a thing of the past. Or so we thought….

Taking inspiration from the recession-inspired “staycations” Colin and I have instituted our own new necessity-inspired ritual: a stay at home date, or “stayte.” Now, this is more than just ordering a pizza and cuddling on the couch while watching a movie. We did that, but it started to feel like both of us relaxing at the same time in the same room. It did little to inspire romance. So, we instead decided to recreate the whole going out experience.

Instead of ordering pizza or Chinese food, we pick up food from a bonafide date-y restaurant, the kind that uses caramelized onions and exotic cheese to good effect. We dress in flattering attire, not pre-bed sweats. We clean the living room and do the dishes to avoid distractions of jobs left undone. We dim the lights, light a candle, set the table and the ipod, and eat our dinner in actual courses. We make horrible jokes about the service being slow and the waiter rude and laugh despite ourselves. After dinner we play games, make out, and even dance if we’re inspired. No one’s looking.

Baby or no, chez nous has some obvious advantages over a dinner out. There’s never a wait, parking and braving the elements are non-issues, no one will stare if you have heated debates or make out sessions, the music is always good, no one rushes you out, and you can have a long luxurious dinner and still be in bed by 10 AM (a definite advantage these days). Granted, there’s a bit clean up involved, no one brings you your plate, and there’s always the threat of a cry from Caleb bursting our well crafted romantic atmosphere. But the advantages greatly outweigh, and so the stayte is here to stay.

Free range organic packaging

You can’t be a citizen of the modern world or a consumer in modern markets without being constantly reminded of the sheer volume of “stuff” we use and, more importantly, then throw out. Every time I lean into an awkwardly sized box to squeeze it into my overstuffed garbage and puzzle over how to fit the pile of cardboard boxes into my recycling bin I wonder at the sheer volume of stuff my small family is adding to the growing pile of waste on earth. I hear there is a floating pile of our garbage the size of Texas bobbing around the ocean. And with each of my contributions, it’s only getting bigger.

How did we get to such a disposable culture? Sure, everything is more convenient. Diapers no longer require scarily sharp safety pins and now have NASA-quality water absorption that promise dry sheets and bums, but they now take 500 years to decompose in a landfill. Cameras and kitchen appliances use to boast lasting from your wedding until your kid’s college graduation, but now gadgets change so quickly that a digital camera is outmoded in a matter of years. The constantly changing seasons of fashion have always spurred consumption, but with cheap labor from globalized markets, even our clothes are disposable. We literally can’t get rid of them fast enough. Clothing donation bins are now ubiquitous on urban street corners and poorer countries are balking at the flood of clothing donations, which are undercutting their homegrown textile industries.

And even though these thoughts of environmental responsibility and guilt about over-consumption ring in my head, there’s really no disincentive to keep creating more waste. Sure, we recycle, and our municipalities help us do so by carting away and sorting for us our recyclables. But there’s no systemic incentive to create less waste overall.

Switzerland has attacked this problem squarely and quite cleverly. While visiting a friend in Zurich, I learned that their plastic garbage bags – which citizens are required to use if they want their garbage hauled away – are incredibly expensive. But their recycling is free. It’s such elegant and basic economics. Put a cost on creating waste and people will be more judicious and careful with their decisions. They’ll look for lighter packaging and buy more recyclables. I haven’t researched the outcomes of this strategy, but Zurich sure is clean and pretty.

So, here’s another proposal: Consumers – at least wealthy consumers in wealthy countries, who create most of the waste – are coming to increasingly care about the environmental and social costs of their purchasing decisions. We look for hormone-free locally and organically produced food. We buy things with various seals of approvals that assure our products are free of toxins like BPA. But when we go to buy something, we often cart home with us a gratuitous and even alarming amount of plastic and cardboard packaging.

Cereal is sealed in a plastic bag, and then enclosed in a cardboard box. We buy toys in shiny non-recyclable boxes that double as display cases in which the item is held in place by hard bits of plastic and wiring. If it weren’t so toxic, I would have a big cathartic bonfire with the mountains of excess packaging that have accompanied all my son’s birthday gifts. We all complain about this packaging and frustrate ourselves getting rid of it. It seems we don’t want it. So, why do the markets produce so much of it?

Sure, businesses make a profit-minded determination on the minimal amount of packaging required to protect their products from damage. But there has to be some slack, right? Isn’t some of this packaging designed simply to attract and entice consumers? To display the item in the most attractive light?

Well, I think enough consumers would be attracted to an item that brings with it the least amount of packaging waste. Such items could be stamped with a “responsible packaging” or “earth friendly packaging” label potentially enticing a consumer indifferent between the myriad similar product choices flooding our shelves. There could be some standards and labeling body. Maybe some federal agency overseeing the whole process.

If enough consumers express their preferences this way, businesses will have to figure out how to use the minimal amount of packaging to get their product safely attractively to market. They’ll wring out the packaging slack that isn’t doing anyone any good.

OK. This idea is not exactly going to solve the coming train wreck of environmental ruin, but it may slow it down and at minimal cost. So, go ahead, powers that be, and recycle this idea.

Ga ga = Arf

In an inadvertent defense of those people who get dogs to serve as a trial run before having a baby, here are all the ways in which my one-year-old actually does resemble a loveable puppy dog.

1) Even when it is in arms reach of his little pincers, he will face plant and eat food directly out of my hand.

2) His favorite activity: chasing after balls.

3) He gets excited when I put on my boots and coats, since he knows it means we’ll be going outside.

4) He pees on the kitchen floor (Ok. It’s in his diaper, so this one is a stretch).

5) He must be taken outside at least once a day.

6) He plays tug-of-war over toys with other little babies.

7) He pants excitedly when he sees something he wants.

8) He whines when he’s hungry.

9) Today on the train, he actually licked my face.

10) My personal favorite: When he’s feeling affectionate, he lays my head in his lap.

Brief trip to DC

From my first cab driver I learned that while Ethiopians speak Amharic, they (at least the Orthodox Christians) read from a bible written in an ancient Ethiopian language called Ge’ez. Like Latin or pre-Israel Hebrew, Ge’ez is used mainly in religious contexts and provides our modern ears a window into the utterances of our ancient ancestors. We stumbled onto this arcane topic because his son, Nawalit, was born only weeks apart from my son, Caleb. Both have biblical names. Caleb in Hebrew and Nawalit in Ge’ez.

My second cabdriver, an overweight loveable curmudgeon type told me about his experiences during the recent apocalyptic scale snow storms, “Lady, it was Hell. I didn’t leave the house for 7 days. But I ran out of liquor on day 3.”

I miss DC

Rose ceremonies and other compelling nonsense

How did I get here? I consider myself a smart, mostly evolved, modern woman, but I’m starting to feel emotionally manipulated by a badly produced reality TV show. I’ll say it, and then shield myself from punches….. the Bachelor.

It all started very innocently. My friends and I would use it as an excuse to get together on Monday nights, drink wine and make fun of the show, ala Mystery Science Theater 2000. The contrived dramatic devises – the pregnant pauses before the delivery of a rose, the gratuitous shirtless Bachelor shots, the wistful looks at portrait studio headshots of the women as our Bachelor scratches his head in an apparently last minute decision on who to cut, the Hallmark-like tableaus of a couples in a beachside embrace – were so transparently manipulative as to be laughable. And yet. And yet.

I’ve since moved away from those girlfriends, and because my husband refuses to be in the room while the show is on, I now watch it alone. Like a pathetic Bacheloholic. (It all started innocently as a little social watching with friends, but pretty soon she was watching alone…)

Now, I’m smart enough to know that “reality” TV notwithstanding, careful editing can tell just about any story the producers want to tell. By sequencing choice clips and not showing others, they can make someone either a villain or a saint. But to make that even easier, producers also help “reality” along with a combustible combination of sleep deprivation, adrenaline-inducing experiences, and a good measure of alcohol. The very situation of dozens of attractive women (the kind unaccustomed to chasing after a man) vying for one man’s attention is ripe for drama without all that, but just in case…

Even knowing all this, the show has somehow sucked me in. And not just in an ironic post-modern kind of way. Maybe I’m simpler than I think I am?

In my defense, we watch TV to escape our lives, and it’s definitely an escape. Whether they are manipulated by the situation or not, these women really do feel that they are falling in love and they nurse genuinely broken hearts. We can all relate to those two emotions – the two extremes on the emotional pendulum of life that make everything else mundane in comparison. Who wouldn’t want to vicariously recapture some of that?

And even though I know I’m not watching “reality,” I do start to root for some women and wish others would go away. You can watch the show fully knowing you are being toyed with and even laugh along with some of the more obvious devises, but still want to take sides, to identify with someone and root for them. It’s only setting you up for the inevitable disappointment. You know it, but do it anyway.

In grad school, my roommate and I watched only one episode. It was the season finale, and the hapless bachelor was choosing between 2 remaining women. The blond was a clear apartment favorite and seemed the obvious choice. When he instead proposed to the brunette and sent our new friend away heart-broken, we were both so crushed we had trouble sleeping that night. Seriously. We talked about our insomnia sheepishly the next day.

Does that make for good drama? I guess so. It’s an apparent plot twist and good water-cooler fodder. It takes the viewer on an emotional ride along with the contestants. But it’s also pure fiction.

Despite over a dozens seasons of Bachelor(ette) shows, each ending with a seemingly heartfelt proposal accepted by a jubilant partner, there’s only been 1 marriage (ceaselessly covered by the gossip media machine). After fewer seasons, the Biggest Loser (a weight-loss contest show) has a markedly better track record for long-term match-making. The Bachelor fails at the one thing it ostensibly intends to produce: a marriage. But it succeeds wildly at the real goal: fabricating enough drama, without having to pay actors or screen writers, to suck in even unwitting viewers.

b...b....b...baby

Like so many first time parents I use a totally unreasonable excess of “nicknames” for my baby. His name, Caleb, which we love and is the result of months of painstaking contemplation, is almost never heard.

I like to think these nicknames reveal themselves to me more than I come up with them. They really do just pop out of my mouth before I have a chance to stop them. Lately it’s been a wellspring of “buh” sounds. My little man goes by “bubsieboo,” “boo bear,” “buster brown,” “bumble bee,” and (this last one is embarrassing, but I have no power to stop it) “boo boo.”

I guess he’s not quite a Caleb yet. He’s a round, soft, funny, toddling, ball of love, and apparently those imagines are neurologically wired with the "buh" sound. I guess that’s why our babies are called babies. I’m sure when he hears me finally call him “Caleb” he’ll look around and wonder who I’m talking to.

I’m currently reading a book, “Half the Sky” by Pulitzer Prize winning couple Nick Kristof and Sheryl WuDunn on the plight of mainly poor women around the world. They make a compelling and often heart–wrenching case that issues affecting this demographic, like the sex trafficking, selective abortions, poor maternal health -- issues that often get little press – are the most pressing human rights issues of our day.


The stories they tell are unapologetically graphic and at times even turn my stomach. They tell stories of women in India being disfigured from acid thrown in their face because they’ve rejected an admirer; of women in Ethiopia being kidnapped and gang raped if a suitor cannot come up with her bride price, thereby reducing her worth and increasing his bargaining power (these women often end up marrying their rapist); of women being brutally stoned to death for alleged but unproven affairs; of a shocking number of women in the Congo being raped with knifes and sticks as a tool of war; of women let to die because of complications from birth which leave them incontinent, of women (girls really) who are promised jobs and then tricked into brothels to work as sex slaves; of girls who are sold for $10 to abusers, of girls whose brothers preferentially get medicine and education while they are left to wilt. As a reader, you are struck as much by the naked violence and brutality as by the gross injustice these women face.


The authors counter each horrific tale with another of hope. They talk about the valiant efforts of NGOs, survivors and courageous individuals to make positive change. But you are still left with an overwhelming sense of the profound injustice and cruelty that so many are left to endure.

I suppose I always knew about these issues in the abstract, but the authors do a remarkable job of making these issues deeply personal with stories and often pictures of the affected women and girls. If you are human, you will be moved by their accounts.


The injustices in “Half the Sky” infuriate me so much I can’t read it before I go to bed, and my husband doesn’t understand why I keep reading it at all. (Poor man has to endure my outraged tirades and sour moods.)


I guess I feel I have to learn about these things in all their raw and explicit detail to really grasp the reality that some women – who, lets face it, could just as easily be me were I born in most parts of the world – face. If my sisters around the world have to endure such sharp injustice and pain, the absolute least I can do is know about it. But after reading this book, I defy anyone to just “know” about it and not do more.

Martha Martha Martha!!!

I’m generally a cynical voter. When I do drag my butt to the polls, I do it out of a sense of duty not out of any fantasy that my vote might actually matter. Last night was different. I happened to be living in a solidly Democratic state holding a special election to replace Ed Kennedy, perhaps the most storied Democratic senator, and it looked like the Republican candidate was poised to stage a stunning upset. Massive health care reform, the first of its kind, hung in the balance.

Polls were close and, as someone whose beliefs and values more closely track with the Democratic agenda, I felt compelled to cast my vote. Driving home from the polling place, I heard a BBC World story on my small state’s election. In that moment, I felt at the center of not only history but the world. Turns out, my vote was not decisive.

So, we all know that Brown did, in the end, stage that promised stunning upset. Today brings the inevitable Monday morning quarterbacking. His election was the result of disapproval of health care reform, Coakley’s lackluster campaign, a general dissatisfaction with the “direction of the country” or the economy that often pushes in an outsider challenger.

I personally think Mass voters also kind of resent being taken for granted. Once the initial aura of inevitability around a Democrat taking the seat was punctured, I’m guessing voters felt a long awaited sense of empowerment. We all want to feel that our voice “counts,” and at the last minute Mass voters got a real race.

In reality, this race was about more than the state. Health care reform, some say, died with this election. If so, I want to mourn it. I believe in reform and it seemed the nation did too. Just a year ago, that people were dying and losing their homes due to lack of health coverage was a national outrage that cut across party lines.

Then, so much happened. Unlike Clinton era reform efforts, this time we tamed the then most effective opposition to reform – the insurance companies - by including them in the process. But conservative talk radio picked up where the insurance companies of the 1990s left off with fear campaigns featuring death panels and socialism that bore little resemblance to reality but gained impressive traction. Then, our Byzantine political process of deal making and horse trading got us a cumbersome 2000 page document that was difficult to explain much less defend and left lots of room for over simplistic criticism to flourish.

So, if it is dead, I’d like to mourn it, but I’m not even sure what I’m mourning any more. Even its supporters, acknowledging the bills’ shortcomings, launched defenses like, “don’t let perfect be the enemy of the good.” And I do think that it could have done (might still do?) some good by insuring millions more, providing more choice and forcing insurance companies to take on those with pre-existing conditions. But is it too expensive to justify those improvements? Who knows anymore.

I think I’ll mourn it more for what it will probably do to a president I deeply respect and believe it. Obama has surely made some missteps his first year. But, he’s had a greater number and greater scale of problems to tackle than any president in recent memory, and I admire the way he’s tackled them – by attempting to make non-ideological and reasoned decisions. He's taken decisions knowing he would suffer a political hit because he thought they were the right course based best information available, and that shows a kind of integrity and courage you don’t often see in today’s politics. I’d hate to see a mess of a process at reform tipped over the edge by a special election upset help undo someone who I believe is doing an admirable job in a near impossible position.

"Mexican" vacation

Ahhh….. I’ve just returned from a much needed escape from the dreary Boston cold and snow. I feel a bit guilty complaining about the weather having just come from basking in the warm Mexican sun, but it somehow feels even more biting and miserable here in comparison. Anyway, we (my extended family) just spent a week in Mexico. But to be fair, our week was really spent in a resort that could have been just about anywhere in the sunny world. The only clue to our continent was the language spoken by most (but not all) of the resort staff and the stylized references to Mayan culture throughout the resort.

The Grand Mayan, where we stayed, is one of those colossal fabricated kingdoms of vacation fantasy that borders on distasteful. You are welcomed to the resort through an entrance I’m sure was described in some developer’s meeting as “creating a sensation of traveling to a faraway time, providing a separation between the every day and the experience of the resort.” The space is easily 3 stories high, lit with somber mood lighting and infused with the music of deep tribal base drums and subtle water features. As your eyes adjust to the darkness, you are met at eye-height by a giant foot and look up to see eye-poppingly immense statues of gilded Mayan warriors. At all times, there is a local woman quietly mopping the marble floors as vacationers sully them with their sandy flip flops and who signifies that no expense will be spared to wipe your proverbial fat American bottom.

The resort itself is decorated in the contemporary spa style and you feel immediately ensconced in luxury. Out back, there are at least 8 or 9 interconnected pools accented with waterfalls, whirlpools and margarita bars, and surrounded by tropical vegetation worthy of a botanical garden. There’s a manmade stream encircling the whole campus of pools that serves as a lazy river for vacationers to innertube on.

But the piece de resistance is gigantic water slide built on – what else? – a mock up of the Mayan Pyramid of Kukulkan, just in case (and you can’t be blamed) you forget where you are. The resort lies just on the beach, but in case resort goers want to entirely avoid local riff raff, the Grand Mayan has constructed a “fake beach” literally 20 feet from the real one, complete with a graduated and sandy shore, and a wave pool. It’s all best described as ridiculously over the top.

My folks bought a time share here pre-construction and, they tell me, got a fantastic deal on the place. We’ve been going here for years now, and I spent most of those feeling consumed with guilt by being so surrounded by such superfluous luxury in such close proximity to real world poverty. I felt conspicuous in front of the ubiquitous Mexican staff and constantly worried how I looked to them -- likely out of touch and spoiled.

I’ve since made my peace with all of that. After all, it makes my family happy to have uninterrupted time together, and the tourism of Puerto Vallarta fuels a full 80%of the local economy creating endless jobs. I know my discomfort isn’t helping anyone and global disparities in wealth exist even when they aren’t thrust in my face. It’s not how I’d necessarily choose to vacation, but I’ll indulge my family…. And myself.