You Heard It Here First

I do so love being right. It just puts a smile on my face. Of course, what I am about to reveal in this post is not really evidence of my rightness. It's just evidence that someone out there agrees with me. However, as "everyone" knows, agreement is proof of righteousness and that's pretty darn close to being right--just ask Rush Limbaugh.

Anyhoo, what I'm trying to get to is that I am not the only one blasting through the myth of journalistic objectivity. In the March 24th issue of Time, James Poniewozik argues that political reporters should disclose for whom they are voting because that view might influence their reporting, and if not disclosed and then revealed, will certainly taint the reader's trust in their reportage (Vol 171, No. 12, page 22). I love what he says here: "Modern political journalism is based on the bogus concept of neutrality (that people can be steeped in campaigns yet not care who wins) and the legitimate ideal of fairness (that people can place intellectual integrity and rigor over their rooting interests)."

Are you following this?

He means that while reporters cannot possibly be neutral (I think, therefore I have opinions), striving for that neutrality is a worthy if unattainable ideal, and that we'll come closer to achieving it if political reporters divulge who they're voting for when reporting on the campaigns.

Why do I care? you are asking yourself at this point.

It's important because magazine news reporting today appears to me [see, that's my opinion] to be little more than a few facts sprinkled over a base of opinion-mongering, much of it snarky. And this is in the straight news articles, never mind all the Op Ed essays and "analysis" columns that pad magazines today. Certainly lobbing opinions is easier than researching facts. Heck, that's the beauty of blogging! Certainly all good writing has a clear and strong point of view (POV), but it's critical for readers to be aware of when the writer is sneaking in opinions or drawing conclusions that aren't substantiated.

Again, why?

Because we all form opinions about the issues of the day based on what we read and (interestingly, even more what we hear from someone we trust) without ever considering the source itself, or the agenda the source might be promoting, (Fox News, anyone?). Rhetorical analysis is not routinely taught in schools anymore so most people are not armed with the tools to ferret this stuff out.

Let's try this at home for ourselves. Since you're astute readers, you've decided to apply the lesson I'm teaching to this very blog post. Right now, you're asking yourselves, "Well, okay then, Miss Claire! On what do you base your opinion that magazine news writing is mostly opinion disguised as fact?

I'll tell you. I base it on reading Time magazine at home and Rolling Stone at my hair stylist's [a really small sample size] and from my impressions of those articles [impressions that might or might not be accurate--notice I did not give any concrete examples because that is just far too much work and don't you trust me and besides you can look for yourselves do I have to do all the work Jesus am I your mother besides I am right I said I was right at the beginning of this article and it's on the Internet so it must be true].

So, there you have it, proof positive that magazine reportage is just fluff. Tell your friends.

Proud To Be An American

Patriotism is unfashionable in some liberal circles because of how the right wing yahoos have trumpeted flag and country to justify any number of oppressive and militaristic agendas. But I have to tell you, fresh back from my trip to our nation's capital, I'm pretty stoked to be an American. I hadn't toured our national treasures for about 30 years so it was pretty much like a new visit for me. We took in all that we wanted on the National Mall--the Capitol, the Supreme Court, the White House (from the outside), the National Archives, all the monuments, Arlington Cemetery, a taste of the National Gallery, the Botanical Gardens, and strolls around the reflecting pool and the Tidal Basin--and it was freakin' awesome!!

I'm telling you, it was a thrill to be where so much history has occurred, and to be reminded anew of the amazing ideas and ideals upon which our country was founded: that each person has dignity and worth; that all are equal under the law; that those in power should have checks and balances so that no one faces the corruption of absolute power; that a peaceful transfer of power among leaders is necessary and possible. Of course, we know the limits of their times and the exclusion of people of color and women to equal status, but the huge step forward in political stability and personal freedom that these ideas represented, and that these ideas were enacted and carry on today moves me a great deal.

I was also moved by the huge numbers of people from all over the country and the world who also wanted to see these sites. The Capitol and the National Archives both had huge lines to get in--people on their vacations actually wanted to see where legislation is enacted and where the "Charters of Freedom" are housed (the Declaration of Independence; the Constitution; and the Bill of Rights). Very inspiring. For all the legitimate concerns thinking people have about the direction our country is headed, it was great to take a break from worry and cynicism and be reminded of just how lucky we are to live in this country free from tyranny and despotism.

So, I have renewed enthusiasm to participate in the political process this election year and to continue to be a part of history in the making. Go Dems!

Gone Fishin'

I won't be posting for a bit because I'll be travelling. So, to keep you amused, here are some other sites you might want to check out:

For Fun: www.youtube.com/stylenxs

Tarot: www.aeclectic.net and www.ata-tarot.com

Spirituality: www.dailyom.com and www.spiritualityandpractice.com

Writing: www.annemini.com

Books: www.booktalk.org

See you soon!

Pets Rule

My alarm goes off at 7:00 a.m. On the radio today it was Delilah from the Plain White Tees. I turn off the alarm, get up, put on my robe, head to the dining room where two kitties meow pitifully, "We're hungry. We haven't eaten anything since dinner. It's outRAGEous!" I give them fresh water, to the sounds of kitty back-up singers. While I scoop some food into each of their bowls the cat singing continues, accompanied by little nips on my ankles. The meowing stops with the sound of dry food hitting plastic.

Behind the gate to the family room, the doggie is doing her yoga (downward facing dog) and vocalizing. I let her outside.

I put the tea water on, use the bathroom, then let the dog back in who promptly goes in search of kitty food. "Leave it, Annie," I tell her and she does. I feed the dog. I give her fresh water. I check on the kitties. Snowbell is done but has left some food in her bowl as always. I put that up so the other cat, Elliott, won't eat it. I let Snowbell out.

Annie is done eating. She needs to go out again. (Easy come, easy go, is her motto.) I let her out.

Elliott is done eating. He looks in vain for Snowbell's food to finish it off. Can't find it so might as well go out. He waits by the sliding glass door for me to notice him. If I don't he meows constantly. I let Elliott out.

Snowbell claws at the front window. She is ready to come back in. She's in, thanks to me. She hops on the table looking for the rest of her food. I put it on the floor.

Annie barks at the sliding glass door. She wants in. I open the door and she's in. She charges for the cat bowls. "Annie, leave it!" I shout. (My husband says that's the dog's name: Annie Leave It or Annie Bad Dog). She leaves it.

All the animals have been fed and watered. The tea water is done. I make my tea, pour my Cheerios, sit down. Ahhhh. My daughter comes in. "What's for breakfast?"

And how was your morning?

Spooning

Spoons are the kids of the utensil world. Everything that's fun to eat you can eat with a spoon: Ice cream. Pudding. Applesauce with cinnamon on top. Frozen yogurt. If a spoon is required to eat it, you know you're getting something yummy, creamy, full of delicious goodness.

If you're young, the number of tasty foods you're allowed to eat with a spoon is quite expansive. You can use your spoon to eat cake, pie, mashed potatoes, and macaroni and cheese and no one looks at you funny. If you're an adult, just try eating mashed potatoes with a spoon at your next family gathering and see how well that goes over. Unless you're sitting at the kids' table; then anything goes.

I must admit though, that some foods sneak into the spoon's domain that don't really belong in the "fun" category. Oatmeal needs to be eaten with a spoon, but why anyone would choose to eat it at all is a whole 'nother issue. Breakfast cereals in general require spoons, and at breakfast time that doesn't really add to their enjoyment. However, if you have cereal for an afternoon snack, or (even better) for dinner . . . then the spoon adds a great deal of fun to the whole experience.

Even the shape of the spoon is enjoyable--rounded, smooth, with a little dimple just right for holding morsels of goodness--even of the human kind. I had a friend who, when spotting a yummy guy, would say, "I could just eat him with a spoon!" Mmmm hmmm. And we all know how much fun spooning is, don't we? Of course, we don't really dip a spoon into somebody's flesh, well, unless you're a Stephen King character, but some things that don't require a spoon are just more fun when eaten with a spoon--like a slice of watermelon or half of a peach sitting smooth side up in a bowl.

Spoons are swimming pools and sunshine and endless days of summer vacation. Just using a spoon invokes all that's delicious about the carefree days of childhood. If you find yourself stuck in the winter glooms, try eating your low-carb, low-fat, low-calorie frozen lunch with a spoon and just see if the sun doesn't break out from its hiding place and ask you to play.

A Waste of Shame

Eliot Spitzer. What can I say? Shakespeare said it best: "The expense of spirit in a waste of shame/Is lust in action".

Proverbs says, "A fool's mouth is his destruction." I don't think it was his mouth that was the problem.

Proverbs also says, "Pride goeth before destruction, and an haughty spirit before a fall." By all accounts he was a self-righteous crusader against corruption; that might constitute a haughty spirit. Certainly it was pride, the ego's PR agent, who told Spitzer he could break the law with impunity. I am just sick to death of the whole thing. I can't even muster up much righteous indignation of my own. I keep empathizing with his wife and daughters and then I just want to cry. I get so bewildered when men do such thoughtless things. Thoughtless, as in lacking thought or care for others. Thoughtless as in no thinking was involved. I guess that's why Ling, the character Lucy Liu played on the show Ally McBeal, called the penis, "the dumb stick." I have no respect for a man who's brain shuts down when his dick gets frisky.

Of course, sex per se is probably not the real problem. It's the engorging effect of power on the human ego. The classic flaw in all great literature is hubris, overweening pride, which is the sin of a man thinking he is like a god. All too soon, he who oversteps is cast down from soaring heights to the pit of hell to writhe forever in pain and despair. Spitzer thought he could break the law and get away with it. He thought he could have his wife and his prostitute, too. Well, he can't and he had to learn it the hard way, destroying his family and his career in the process.

That's why Obama feels like such a breath of fresh air--decency and smarts all wrapped up in a shield of integrity. We've had such a dearth of male politicians who are true statesman. Instead we've had to settle for whatever weenie decided to run. Obama feels like the real deal. Let's hope his integrity is more than just skin deep (and no, that's not a racial reference). I don't think I could stand another disappointment like Bill Clinton turned out to be.

And I'm not even talking about votes at this point. I'm just talking about the example being set by those who ask us to give them the power to change our world. I would like the debates to be about issues and policy, and not devolve into personal attacks. I think Hillary demeans herself and the process when she gets nasty, and she makes me a little less likely to vote for her with every snarky thing she says. And I want to vote for her, so I'm praying she remembers that how you play the game is just as important as winning the game. If not, all the Democrats will lose come November. That would be the real tragedy.

Surrender Dorothy

Remember that scene in the Wizard of Oz where the Wicked Witch of the West flies her broomstick across the sky and spells out, "Surrender Dorothy," in the first recorded incident of contrails caused by a household object? Dorothy, plucky girl that she is, of course will do no such thing. To surrender is to give up, to give in, to stop fighting, to let go. Not at all the American way.

Sometimes, though, surrendering is the spiritual way. When our egos have run out of control, when we have made choices that are self and other-destructive and we are reaping the consequences--like New York Governor Eliot Spitzer--then letting go and acknowledging the truth of our actions will lead us along a more spiritual path. Twelve-step programs have long known that surrender is the key component of a successful recovery because it forces addicts of any persuasion to acknowledge that their addiction really has beaten them, that they have no control over it, that they need help from outside themselves.

We all like to think we're the center of the universe. That's the developmental stage that toddlers have to grapple with, that they are only one slice in the orange and not the whole fruit. Most of us successfully get through it but it's easy to revert to that frame of mind under times of stress, and when we really want something really badly, like those black stilettos I saw at Nordstroms last week please can I have 'em can I can I can I?. I want. I need. I deserve. That's ego talk and it's valid, but the key to walking a spiritual path (and to being a good parent) is to know how and when to say no.

Sometimes life says no for us. We get a scary medical diagnosis or someone walks away, or dies, when we didn't want him to (or her). Whether the knockout blow is a result of our own bad choices, or whether life has kicked us in the teeth, we are left hanging, wondering why the world is all atilt, wondering what we're supposed to do now. This is the state described in the Tarot deck by The Hanged Man, number 12 in the Major Arcana. It is here, suspended upside down by events spiralled out of our control, that we surrender our ego and simply be with what is.

If we can let go and accept what we cannot change, we are changed for the better. As we suffer the consequences of being fallible, of being limited beings, then we can grow in compassion for all humanity who suffers in the same way. As we let ourselves be helped by another, we understand in a visceral way how good it feels to be given a hand up; when we're back on our feet, we offer our own hand to others more often. When we have been freed from the trap of needing others to see us as more polished and shiny than we really are, it's easy to look behind the surfaces of others' lives and reflect back what we really see, not just what the other wants us to see, and real connections become possible.

No one wants to get kicked in the head by life, but sometimes it's the best thing for us, spiritually speaking. When it's AFOG time (Another Fucking Opportunity For Spiritual Growth) the best thing to do is surrender gracefully . . . whether you like it or not!

Just The Facts, Ma'am

I had occasion recently to think about the difference between writing to inform versus writing to entertain. Stay with me, even if you're not a writer, 'cause it'll be relevant to you, I promise. When I taught research writing, my community college students thought if they strung a bunch a facts together, their work was done and they could go back to their preferred past times of slouching, drinking coffee and texting. Not so, my friends, not so.

Facts are the meat of any kind of informational writing, be it a news article, a research paper or a grant application. But plain, undigested raw meat is just boring (and disgusting, especially if you're a vegetarian). What the facts need is the spice the writer brings to them. The writer needs to have chewed on those facts like cud and come up with a perspective that gives them meaning. In other words, if informational writing isn't going to serve as a sleep aid, it needs a strong writer's voice to interpret the facts. All the better if that writer's voice is entertaining.

Don't think I can't hear you news junkies out there spitting out your coffee, sputtering about reporter objectivity. In truth, there is no such thing as objective writing. Remember that facts are the meat of writing-to-inform. Well, did the reporter get a Grade A New York steak, or did s/he settle for ground chuck? Did s/he talk to someone with direct knowledge of any indiscretion between Senator McCain and his lobbyist? To someone who knows someone with direct knowledge? Or did s/he talk to Fred Jones, man-on-the-street, who thinks it's a disgrace that politicians just can't keep it in their pants? Check, next time you read an article. The facts are only as good as the sources.

You can uncover another sneaky way that news writing is less than objective when you look at the order in which the facts are reported. A case in point is the recent Statesman article about the State Hospital. They led with the information that a disproportionate share of forensic patients were released to Marion County and then listed their horrific crimes, implying that the community wasn't safe because of this. It was a wonderfully inflammatory way of hooking in the reader. It wasn't until the middle of the article, on page two inside the front section, that the reporter mentioned that only two of the 56 (or so) patients re-offended after their release. You had to work pretty hard to discover that the community really isn't at any more risk despite the larger numbers of former patients released here.

So, while facts matter, it's the meaning that you make of the facts that really counts, in writing and in life. (Here's where we get to all you non-writers). When my husband comes home from work and recites the facts of his day, I often (inadvertently) take a mini vacation in my head because I do not care about the inner workings of the DOJ. When I snap back to attention is when we get to how those inner workings are affecting him. It's his feelings behind the facts that matter most to me, the meaning he is making out of those facts that has import.

Just so it should be with our own lives. You are the protagonist of your own life, and everything that befalls the main character in a story is of paramount importance: Will she pick the shorter grocery check-out line? Does the dentist predict one or two fillings on his back molars? Did her move to Aruba kill any hope of reconciliation with her long-lost college sweetheart? This is the stuff of real life and it matters because your life matters.

Take time to figure out how you feel about the facts of your story. Chew on your life. Digest your experiences, understand how they have impacted you for better or for worse. Get help and support when you need it. Celebrate your joys and successes. Mourn your losses. Most importantly, share your hard-won perspective with others so that we can better know you, and learn from the meaning you have made out of the facts of your life.

The World is Mud-luscious

It's Spring! It's Spring! . . . . if not officially then at least in my heart. I was so ready for February to be over. I think February is the worst month, full of fog and gloom and rain and still Spring is soooo far away and then one morning the crocuses are up, little white and purple harbingers of hope and I can hang on just a few more weeks until the air warms up and the rain is what the Navajos call a "female rain," soft and gentle, watering the earth and the flowers. Then I turn my face to the sun just like all the daffodils lining the walkways and kids are out on the playground at the park near my house and dogs are getting walked and I can see people's faces since they are no longer hidden under hoods and umbrellas and they are smiling.

Spring fever is definitely going around and it's worth catching. Sure the whole fertility and mating ritual aspects are fun, but so are taking deep breaths of fresh air, skipping down the sidewalk, watching the robins' red breast in contrast to the green green grass. Be like e.e. cummings and make up words, put line breaks in odd places in your life, stand on your head and wiggle your toes in the air. Wake up! Begin each day as if it were on purpose (Mary Anne Radmacher).

in Just-
spring when the world is mud-
luscious the little
lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come
running from marbles and
piracies and it's
spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer
old balloonman whistles
far and wee
and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's
spring
and
the

goat-footed

balloonMan whistles
far
and
wee
-- e. e. cummings (1923)

Narrative Addiction

Hi. My name is Claire and I'm addicted to stories.

Whew. I feel better. They say admitting you have a problem is the first step. I first noticed I might have crossed the line during the Hollywood writer's strike, when all that was left on TV was American Gladiator and other reality shows. Every Tuesday around 9 p.m. I'd get restless, a little edgy, at a loss with what to do with myself since House wasn't on. It's not that I needed to simply watch TV. I needed to know what was going to happen next to Dr. House and his motley crew.

I'm sure you've succumbed to the "What Happens Next?" disease. You've stayed up too late finishing a novel, or watched a movie that wasn't all that great but you couldn't bring yourself to leave or turn it off because you wanted to see how it turned out. Once you reached the end of the story that concluded satisfactorily, you slapped the covers of the book together --or strode out of the theater--saying, "That was a good book!" Or, "That was a great movie!"

Real life doesn't always conclude satisfactorily. My mother was an alcoholic who died alone in Mexico, estranged from her family. She and I had no happy reunion before her death where all was forgiven; she never stopped drinking and became an example to others like her. This real-life storyline would never play in a book, (unless it was written by a European going for the Booker prize, all of which are extremely depressing). Her death cured me of the notion that life is like a book or a movie. But it didn't cure me of the notion that it should be, dammit.

The guy should get the girl, the teen mother should be reunited with the child she gave up for adoption, the dying father should get to see his estranged son at his bedside, the Catholic church should get down on its collective knees and pray for forgiveness. Until the story ends, we, the audience, hold on to the hope that it will all work out for the best.

That's why stories are so powerful. They give us hope. Hope that it will all work out in the end, if not for us, than at least for someone else, which means that reconciliation and forgiveness and redemption are possible in this life. A happy ending is possible in this sometimes incredibly difficult world and it helps, sometimes, just to know that. That's why I read genre fiction, particularly mysteries. The puzzle is solved. The criminal is brought to justice. All the questions are answered. At least all the questions that humans can answer.

We can't know for sure why we're here or what it's all about. We posit answers to those questions in ways that make sense for us. We tell ourselves origin stories about First Man and First Woman, about human greed that destroyed our original paradise, about what rules will help us return to that place of grace. We see a baby smile or watch the sun go down over the ocean and find, just for a moment, we are in that place of grace right here and now. We wonder what the baby's life will be like and pray that the sun will come up again another day. We hope that there is more to our own lives and that when it comes time for it to end, we will be able to say, "Now, that was a good story!"

Take Root in Earth

Writing is a Swords activity--conceptual, abstract, focused on communicating ideas. Words are made up of symbols that when put together represent something else--my sister, California, a daffodil--but the words themselves are not the person, the place or thing. When I write a lot I get really spacey and forgetful. One afternoon after a fierce bout of writing, I was on my way to pick up my daughter after school and I kept forgetting where I was going and taking wrong turns.

That's why I need to root myself in earth as an antidote. I am a novice gardener but the more I write, the more I want to dig and weed and plant. Gardening is a Pentacles activity--earthy, grounded, tangible. Usually the real world is not my thing, but now that I have my blog and am working on a novel, I find I need the tangible as an anchor. I need to feel myself in my body, moving my muscles, feeling the fresh air on my face.

In honor of gardening, writing and Spring, I give you a Marge Piercy poem:

The Seven of Pentacles

Under a sky the color of pea soup
she is looking at her work growing away there
actively, thickly like grapevines or pole beans
as things grow in the real world, slowly enough.
If you tend them properly, if you mulch, if you water,
if you provide birds that eat insects a home and winter food,
if the sun shines and you pick off caterpillars,
if the praying mantis comes and the ladybugs and the bees,
then plants flourish, but at their own internal clock.

Connections are made slowly, sometimes they grow underground.
You cannot tell always by looking what is happening.
More than half a tree is spread out in the soil under your feet.
Penetrate quietly as the earthworm that blows no trumpet.
Fight persistently as the creeper that brings down the garden.
Gnaw in the dark and use the sun to make sugar.

Weave real connections, create real nodes, build real houses.
Live a life you can endure: make love that is loving.
Keep tangling and interweaving and taking more in,
a thicket and bramble wilderness to the outside but to us
interconnected with rabbit runs and burrows and lairs.

Live as if you liked yourself, and it may happen:
reach out, keep reaching out, keep bringing in.
This is how we are going to live for a long time: not always,
for every gardener knows that after the digging after
the planting,
after the long season of tending and growth, the harvest comes.

Jesus Never Did Laundry

Growing up Catholic, Jesus was like a really annoying older brother. As I already had three brothers, two of whom were older than I, I really really didn't need another one. Especially one who was such a goody two-shoes. Now, to my parents' credit, they never compared us children to one another, or even to Jesus but that didn't matter because we went to church every Sunday and to religious education classes one day a week AND to Catholic high school. It was all Jesus all the time and his life and times were absorbed by osmosis into my frame of reference.

Jesus became like a character in that old 70's staple, the movie of the week. He was the sainted oldest boy, the one killed in the "good war", a picture of him in uniform up on the mantel a reminder to his parents and the rest of the children of his sacrifice, of his unfulfilled promise, of how the rest of the children had to live their lives trying to live up to his example unless they wanted to see their mother cry. Who wouldn't resent such a paragon, and what achievment could compete with the whole dying young thing?

Child: "Look, Mom, I got all A's."
Mother (sobbing): Poor Jesus got all A's but he didn't live long enough to go to college like you get to do so I hope you appreciate it young lady."

Of course, we didn't have the sainted Jesus' picture on the mantel. We had crucifixes up on our walls, which ups the ante considerably.

The crucifix, to my young mind, was an object lesson in exactly why I did NOT want to to be like Jesus. Hello! The man was killed! Is that the way I want to live my life--to be executed for crimes against the state? I don't think so. Sure, he got a bad rap, it was a corrupt system, they had it out for him. All true, but he knew that before he paraded into Jerusalem on the back of a donkey. It was great performance art AND a giant middle finger to the authorities at the same time. He had to know what shit was going to go down. Rumor has it, he did, and yet he went ahead and dared the authorities to make something of it. Well, they did.

Martyrdom, especially voluntary martyrdom as Jesus' is reputed to be, always annoys me. It is such a guy thing to do, at least a certain kind of guy, who makes a grand gesture on which he can dine out forever. You know what I mean, ladies. It's the marriage proposal on the stadium scoreboard, the making of dinner the one time you are felled by the flu, moving the furniture to vacuum under the couch once a year. The Grand-Gesture-Guy (GGG) lives for the singular heroic deed and scorns the stuff of everyday life like going to the grocery store weekly, cooking dinner nightly, putting the children to bed each evening, feeding the pets every morning. What kind of media coverage can you get for that!

To my mind, Jesus was a GGG. Sure, he died in a truly gruesome way, but in doing so he left Mary Magdalene and his apostles to do all the grunt work of spreading his message. They were the ones on the ground floor, making bumper stickers and lawn signs, campaigning door-to-door, giving interviews and soliciting donations, creating the brand logo and jingle. Someone had to come up with the little fishy-thing you see on cars everywhere and it sure wasn't the dead guy.

That's one of the many reasons I've always gravitated to paganism--no hero worship of dead guys. Sure there were lots of dead women, burned at the stake, but that wasn't voluntary or part of any grand plan. That was the result of sexism and oppression where men in power, particularly doctors, were frightened by strong, capable women "infringing" on what they saw as their profession and so they made snarky comments about pantsuits and thick ankles and crybabies and . . . oops, wrong century. At least Hillary Clinton has (so far) escaped with her life.

So, I never saw Jesus as an example to follow; more, he was an object lesson about the cruelty and capriciousness of humanity, the futility of martyrdom, and the lengths to which some men will go to avoid doing the dishes. I don't admire a man with a Messiah Complex, whose ego is so huge that whatever he is doing is more important and more necessary than what anyone else is doing, the kind of man who always is in a meeting, who constantly checks his email, who has his Blackberry chained to his wrist. That kind of man is useless to me.

I prefer a man who knows that life is lived in the daily and doesn't shy away from the repetitive, meditative tasks like laundry:

Bow over the hamper,
sorting light from dark.
Carry your burden to the well
sprinkle soap
spill clothes.
Knobs turn, water gushes,
stand a moment and listen to the wooosh
washing away the stains on our clothes,
the sins from our souls.

Letter to Jennifer

Dear Jennifer,*

When I heard you say after the Honor Awards Ceremony last night that you were "soooo embarrassed" to be on the Honor Roll and wasn't my daughter embarrassed, too, I wanted to smack you. That's right. You heard me. I wish I could be a kinder person with Oprah-like compassion and help you delve more deeply into the source of your misplaced embarrassment all the better to overcome it, but instead I barked at you, "Never be ashamed of being smart."

That was it. Profound, huh? Really, I wanted to shake you, you silly, silly girl. Already, at age 12, you've decided that it's better to hide who you really are in order to have the privilege of hanging around with girls just as silly as you. Apparently, none of your peeps get straight A's and to do so is to be an object of ridicule. As sophisticated as you are, I'm sure, Jennifer, that you did not appreciate the irony that you were telling my daughter, another 4.0 student, that you were embarrassed because none of your friends got straight A's, when you have known my daughter for 5 years, been to her parties, and invited her to yours. When in fact, ALL of her closest friends got straight A's.

I know you two don't hang around much anymore, for which I am deeply thankful, but clearly there are plenty of girls at your school who are smart, get good grades and are proud of it. What is it that you're choosing, when you pick friends who will make fun of you for being smart? You are choosing to be liked not for who you are, but for who you pretend to be. You are choosing a lifetime of self-loathing and low self-esteem with friends who feel the same way. You are choosing to give away your power.

Believe you me, there are plenty of people who will try to take your power. Why make it easy for them? Why simply hand it over, gift-wrapped, with a sign that says, "abuse me" hanging around your neck. You are a smart girl. A very smart girl with a big personality and I'm hoping that this is simply a phase that you will outgrow. But in the meantime, forgive me if I cross the street when I see you. I really don't want to slap you upside your head and it's better for both of us if my self-control isn't tested.

Sincerely,

Claire

*Jennifer is not her real name

The Land of the Free

Did you see the report from the Pew Center that said that the United States imprisons one out of every 100 adults? That our spending on corrections has quadrupled in 20 years; that the rate of increase for prison costs was six times higher than for education spending? That (and here's the kicker) the United States puts more people in prison than any other nation in the world! More total people and more people per capita. Are you appalled? I'm appalled.

Apparently, one of the culprits is "tough on crime" measures that require mandatory minimum sentences for certain crimes, like Oregon's Ballot Measure 11. These kinds of measures have passed all over the country because citizens like to elect people who are "tough on crime." I think what we really are is "tough on people." My husband works in the criminal justice system and says that Measure 11 sounds good on paper but what you get are people incarcerated for 7 years because of a bar fight. I think our priorities as a country are seriously out of whack.

And speaking of out of whack, have you locals clued into the fact that a certain Republican who authored Ballot Measure 11 is now pushing for tough minimum sentences for first-time property and drug offenses? Yes, our very own Kevin Mannix will have an initiative on the ballot in November that is so bad that the Legislature actually stopped dithering and attempted some alternative legislation of its own. They did so in order to counter the huge costs that Mannix's initiative would impose on the state: reportedly 4,000 to 6,000 more inmates at a cost of $256 million to $400 million more in 2009-11 budget cycle (Statesman Journal, "Initiatives Could Boost Incarceration in the State", Friday, February 29, 2008).

The paper goes on to say that "virtually every major law-enforcement group backed the alternative" but that Mannix is sticking to his original initiative. What could possibly motivate a citizen of our great state of Oregon to want to saddle all of us taxpayers with an extra $400 million? Is the man stupid? Stubborn? Criminally ambitious and setting himself up for yet another (doomed) stab at public office, say Attorney General?

Whatever his motives, we are to blame. Everyone who voted for Measure 11 is responsible for the mess we are in. The 150,000 people who signed his new initiative are also to blame. And yes, dear reader, those of us who were too smart to fall for Mannix's "tough on crime" initiatives are also to blame because we are part of society that turns away from the sight and plight of criminals and the sorry state of our prison system. People in prison are not locked away from society--they and the prisons they live in are part of our society, a part that nice people like you and me don't like to think about or look at or deal with.

Crime scares me and criminals scare me and I'd rather not think about them. But I feel compassion for people who get out of prison and are given no services to help them transition back into society. I feel compassion for all the people with mental health problems who commit crimes and go to prison and receive no treatment, for prostitutes who hook to feed their habit, for convicted drug users who are sent to prison and receive no treatment, for all of the degradations that human beings can fall prey to when they live on margins of our great society.

Immigration is the big hot button topic this political season. Perhaps our country wouldn't be such a draw if it were seen for what it really is, the place where more people call prison home than anywhere else in the world. Some land of the free.