A new year. A new trip. It’s become my classic combination, akin to wine with cheese or Doritos with M&Ms (trust me, it works). My earlier fascination with travel has grown into a nearly physical need for it. The signs of the craving are now familiar: I’m restless, I peruse travel websites during work, I look at stamps on my passport and reminisce as if they’re old family photos.
I don’t know where this year will take me, but I hope it will be across the Atlantic. In anticipation, I’ve amassed stashes of travel porn: Budget Travel magazine, Rick Steves DVDs, VRBO, and my beloved weekly Kayak travel deals email. While I may look like the same old me, I focus on my potentially awesome versions of me in 2010: the me who hikes through Croatia to see waterfalls! The me who sips Bohemian beer after a day of sightseeing in Prague! The me who watches for giraffe and lion on the plains in South Africa! I salivate at the idea that by year’s end, I might know my way around Salzburg or dicker for prices in a Budapest market or learn basic phrases in Dutch.
I recently read Alain de Botton’s Art of Travel in which he examines why and how we travel. Parts are refreshingly unromantic: I sympathized with the feeling of arriving to a foreign location expecting to find both the city and myself there to be postcard perfect (see above) and feeling let down initially. But the gap between the ideal and the real -- in regards to both the place and myself in the place -- seems the most valuable part. I love the discovery of it all. I travel because I know that the person I’ll be on the return flight will be more enlightened (albeit tired) than the starry-eyed one on the outbound trip, that I’ll have learned more about my world and myself largely due to the gap between my expectations of the trip and the reality of it.
It’s funny -- in a humiliating way -- to remember predictions of my past trips. Upon booking our Paris trip, I fancied I’d become a Parisian Carrie Bradshaw, breezing through streets wearing a dress with a flirty, full skirt (I don’t even own dresses like that!), scarf around my neck, while speaking my few phrases so convincingly that the locals would be shocked -- shocked! -- to learn I wasn’t a native. The reality? I was my usual jeans-clad persona, only the people on the Metro stared so disapprovingly at my boots that I knew they set me apart in a bad way, and I couldn‘t figure out how. In cafes, after I’d stammer my order and a couple niceties in French, I’d wait for the waiter to escape earshot before exclaiming to Jimmy, “I did it!! I ordered us coffees!” And unfailingly, the waiter would return -- not with coffees but with espressos because I ordered the wrong damn thing. Again. Luckily, I had many opportunities to learn to love espresso in Paris. The boot thing really bothered me, though. C’mon, black leather boots! What could be wrong with black leather boots?
Travel changes me. Improves me. Each new place demands humility, an open mind, and a willingness to learn what it has to teach. Paris -- despite its reputation -- taught me to be more polite to strangers, to greet and bid au revior to shop owners and to respect a local language at the cost of my ego and desire to appear effortlessly chic while abroad. Italy taught me to slow down while eating and walking, to stop rushing and start noticing, and in the name of all things holy, to use fresh foods and herbs when I cook. Ireland taught me to cherish ties and time with friends and family. London, like the rest, taught me to ditch my preconceived notions and to accept a place on its terms -- or, as it were, to mind the gap.
So where will this year take me? Which me will I become? What place will offer its own lessons that will forever change me? I don’t know, but I just hope where ever it is, black leather boots will be OK there.
Thursday, January 07, 2010
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
All I Want For Christmas
... is a healthcare bill. While this is not the bill I hoped to see (I reeeeally wanted that public option), I still smile at the prospect of these changes coming to the U.S. Although his name isn’t brought up in polite conversation, John Edwards deserves much credit for this: during the 2008 primary, he was the first candidate to test the waters of universal healthcare months prior to Clinton and Obama dipping their toes in. This was during a time when Bush vetoed the health insurance plan for poor children, and not many people got all that upset about it.
I admit, I experienced 11th-hour doubt thanks to my political crush, Howard Dean. His WaPo editorial raised compelling points, and he (like myself) wondered if this bill was worthwhile without that public option. Should we wait for a more perfect bill? After more reading and thought, I decided this bill should be passed. Does it do the most good possible? No. But it does a hell of lot more than our current system does. (Here’s back-up from Paul Krugman) Reasons why this bill gets the coveted FemChick seal of approval:
30 million people: The number of currently uninsured Americans who will gain coverage under this act! That will mean 94% of legal citizens under Medicare age will have healthcare coverage in 2014, up from 83% currently. That’s a lot of people about to live healthier lives, about to be less scared about a medical mishap slipping them into bankruptcy.
Higher taxes on wealthy: The difference between this program and Bush-era spending programs? This administration plans to pay for it. Some will come from cost-cutting measures, and some will come from higher taxes on those making over $200k a year. My heart does not break: because of recent tax laws, the gap between the wealthy and poor is wider than it has been in generations. The expansion on the vacation home just might have to wait until the poor can go to a doctor for an annual physical.
Mandatory coverage: Without this, we’d continue the broken system of the insureds paying an invisible tax to cover the uninsureds' unpaid ER bills -- and those uninsured Americans have preventable ER visits due to lack of basic and preventative care. Voluntary coverage doesn't work fairly -- we all must be required to have coverage.To those who bemoan this get-covered-or-get-fined approach, I’d like to ask them whether they comply with mandatory car insurance laws and are happy that other drivers must as well.
And the rest of us can keep our coverage: No more discrimination on pre-existing conditions, no more terminations of coverage upon illness. Although progressives such as Dean are not happy with the amount that coverage costs can increase with age, this bill does cap those increases more than current runaway costs. It seems only fair (and right and good) that the elderly and sick can keep their health insurance.
Each party can point to abuses on either side, even by those seemingly opposing their own party's mission: Democratic Senator Schmucky from Nebaska holding out for special favors, Republicans stalling a Pentagon spending bill in order to delay the healthcare bill. It’s been a messy process and as always, politicians begin to resemble bratty second graders at recess. But I hope 60 senators come together to do the right thing: to pass a bill that will enable millions of Amercians to have affordable health insurance for the first time. During a time of so many Scrooge specials, let’s stick up for the “surplus population.”
And God bless us, everyone.
I admit, I experienced 11th-hour doubt thanks to my political crush, Howard Dean. His WaPo editorial raised compelling points, and he (like myself) wondered if this bill was worthwhile without that public option. Should we wait for a more perfect bill? After more reading and thought, I decided this bill should be passed. Does it do the most good possible? No. But it does a hell of lot more than our current system does. (Here’s back-up from Paul Krugman) Reasons why this bill gets the coveted FemChick seal of approval:
30 million people: The number of currently uninsured Americans who will gain coverage under this act! That will mean 94% of legal citizens under Medicare age will have healthcare coverage in 2014, up from 83% currently. That’s a lot of people about to live healthier lives, about to be less scared about a medical mishap slipping them into bankruptcy.
Higher taxes on wealthy: The difference between this program and Bush-era spending programs? This administration plans to pay for it. Some will come from cost-cutting measures, and some will come from higher taxes on those making over $200k a year. My heart does not break: because of recent tax laws, the gap between the wealthy and poor is wider than it has been in generations. The expansion on the vacation home just might have to wait until the poor can go to a doctor for an annual physical.
Mandatory coverage: Without this, we’d continue the broken system of the insureds paying an invisible tax to cover the uninsureds' unpaid ER bills -- and those uninsured Americans have preventable ER visits due to lack of basic and preventative care. Voluntary coverage doesn't work fairly -- we all must be required to have coverage.To those who bemoan this get-covered-or-get-fined approach, I’d like to ask them whether they comply with mandatory car insurance laws and are happy that other drivers must as well.
And the rest of us can keep our coverage: No more discrimination on pre-existing conditions, no more terminations of coverage upon illness. Although progressives such as Dean are not happy with the amount that coverage costs can increase with age, this bill does cap those increases more than current runaway costs. It seems only fair (and right and good) that the elderly and sick can keep their health insurance.
Each party can point to abuses on either side, even by those seemingly opposing their own party's mission: Democratic Senator Schmucky from Nebaska holding out for special favors, Republicans stalling a Pentagon spending bill in order to delay the healthcare bill. It’s been a messy process and as always, politicians begin to resemble bratty second graders at recess. But I hope 60 senators come together to do the right thing: to pass a bill that will enable millions of Amercians to have affordable health insurance for the first time. During a time of so many Scrooge specials, let’s stick up for the “surplus population.”
And God bless us, everyone.
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Where Have All The Bibles Gone?
As always, a lot of personal belief masquerades as religious dictate: the “it’s not me, it’s God” defense of a political argument. Recently though, it’s shocking how the Bibles have gone missing. We are in the midst of political debates regarding core moral issues – healthcare for the poor, higher taxes for the rich, war – and I haven’t heard much scripture. I am no theologian, but I know my New Testament fairly well, especially the Sermon on the Mount. Those pages contain many words (especially in red) regarding poverty, charity, and killing. Where are those Bibles now? Why do the WWJD? signs disappear when the conversation turns to taxes, healthcare, guns. and war? The criteria switches: while it’s “un-Christian” to support reproductive rights or gay marriage, it’s “un-American” to support public healthcare or to oppose war.
I don’t mean to insinuate that one cannot be religious and support war or oppose a public healthcare option. What I mean is that if the Bible is the core argument in one political debate, consistency demands that the Bible returns for the next one. If someone uses a Bible to defend an opposition to gay marriage, they need to use it when the debate moves onto healthcare for the poor or the war in Afghanistan. Otherwise that book is no longer a sacred text guiding a belief system but becomes a mere prop.
My point, of course, is that religion does not belong in government policy for this reason: it’s used as a convenient and nearly unassailable way to bolster personal opinion as divine truth. Now that we see many political conservatives shelving Bibles when their particular causes would not be helped by them, let’s keep religious texts where they belong: in homes and places of worship, guiding lives but not policy.
I don’t mean to insinuate that one cannot be religious and support war or oppose a public healthcare option. What I mean is that if the Bible is the core argument in one political debate, consistency demands that the Bible returns for the next one. If someone uses a Bible to defend an opposition to gay marriage, they need to use it when the debate moves onto healthcare for the poor or the war in Afghanistan. Otherwise that book is no longer a sacred text guiding a belief system but becomes a mere prop.
My point, of course, is that religion does not belong in government policy for this reason: it’s used as a convenient and nearly unassailable way to bolster personal opinion as divine truth. Now that we see many political conservatives shelving Bibles when their particular causes would not be helped by them, let’s keep religious texts where they belong: in homes and places of worship, guiding lives but not policy.
Tuesday, September 29, 2009
Literature Czar
Last weekend during the National Book Festival, the Washington Post asked authors this question: If you were named literature czar and could make all Americans read one book, which book would it be?
What a great question! More than any other hypothetical – more than wondering what I would do with a million dollars or what first law I'd pass as president – the book czar question put me in touch with my inner power tripper. It was an easy call: Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. A book about loyalty, adventure, humanity, and personal moral compass (and a hilarious read, no less). How cool it would be to turn to the person beside me in the grocery store and ask, “So what did you think about that ending? Did Huck fail Jim, or did Twain wimp out?” As book czar, I’d hope that the entire country would be kept awake at night obsessing over questions like that. (I’d be an eeeevil book czar.)
I posed this question to a cross-section of people today: lawyers, fulltime moms, Marines, business owners, professors, creative professionals, students, etc. Their responses were immediate and enthusiastic. These are my friends, family, neighbors, and colleagues. I look at our collective list and wonder: What do these books say about us? What do they say about our views of America?
All the King's Men
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass
The Great Gatsby (2 votes)
To Kill a Mockingbird (3)
Ferdinand the Bull
The Last Tortilla and Other Stories
Rise to Globalism
For the Common Defense, A Military History of the United States
The Illustrated Man
Huck Finn (4)
The Giving Tree
Amazing Fantasy #15 - Marvel Comics
All I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten
Fahrenheit 451
Where the Red Fern Grows
And one deserate plea that the book be anything but Grapes of Wrath.
Your turn: If you were named literature czar, which book would you want Americans to read?
And until that glorious day when my reign begins, enjoy this preview:
"It's lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened."
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain
What a great question! More than any other hypothetical – more than wondering what I would do with a million dollars or what first law I'd pass as president – the book czar question put me in touch with my inner power tripper. It was an easy call: Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. A book about loyalty, adventure, humanity, and personal moral compass (and a hilarious read, no less). How cool it would be to turn to the person beside me in the grocery store and ask, “So what did you think about that ending? Did Huck fail Jim, or did Twain wimp out?” As book czar, I’d hope that the entire country would be kept awake at night obsessing over questions like that. (I’d be an eeeevil book czar.)
I posed this question to a cross-section of people today: lawyers, fulltime moms, Marines, business owners, professors, creative professionals, students, etc. Their responses were immediate and enthusiastic. These are my friends, family, neighbors, and colleagues. I look at our collective list and wonder: What do these books say about us? What do they say about our views of America?
All the King's Men
For Whom the Bell Tolls
Narrative of the Life of Frederick Douglass
The Great Gatsby (2 votes)
To Kill a Mockingbird (3)
Ferdinand the Bull
The Last Tortilla and Other Stories
Rise to Globalism
For the Common Defense, A Military History of the United States
The Illustrated Man
Huck Finn (4)
The Giving Tree
Amazing Fantasy #15 - Marvel Comics
All I Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten
Fahrenheit 451
Where the Red Fern Grows
And one deserate plea that the book be anything but Grapes of Wrath.
Your turn: If you were named literature czar, which book would you want Americans to read?
And until that glorious day when my reign begins, enjoy this preview:
"It's lovely to live on a raft. We had the sky up there, all speckled with stars, and we used to lay on our backs and look up at them, and discuss about whether they was made or only just happened."
The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Mark Twain
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Why English?
During my twenties, I assumed that work would provide all the intellectual stimulation necessary in life. If I worked hard enough, I thought, I’d grow wise and become the kind of wit who regales crowds at cocktail parties. Not quite. The longer I worked, the dumber I felt.
The fault wasn't with the job. I’ve been fortunate to work in web development and design, a creative career that forces the left and right halves of my brain to play nice. The deeper I dug into my field, however, the more shallow I felt beyond it. I was smart at one point, right? Didn’t I once think, you know, like things and stuff? I decided to do what confused people do: go to grad school.
When I told my boss that I wouldn’t be able to work late Tuesdays and Thursdays because I started my Masters, her eyes lit up. She reached for the company’s tuition reimbursement form and asked what program I began: IT? Business? “No,” I replied, “English!” Hopped up on idealism and three cups of coffee, I shared my vision with her: nights of discussing Shakespeare or laughing over Twain, reading great books and hearing wise professors! Didn’t it sound like so much fun? She supposed it did and then took back the tuition reimbursement form.
Some of my well-intentioned colleagues attempted an intervention. Why English? Did I know that choosing a degree in my field meant that the company would pay for it? I did. Did I realize that this degree offered no hope of a raise and only qualified me for a teaching career which paid woefully little in NC? Yep.
The friends who got it, though, really got it. One friend smiled and replied, “Good. I think that when people go to school for the purpose of making more money, we shouldn’t even call it education.” Ouch. (But amen.)
The following three years were exhausting, stressful, and absolutely wonderful. I felt like me at my best. My professors were among the most inspiring and knowledgeable (and funny!) teachers I've had. Class discussions were so engaging that I’d come home too excited to sleep. My paper on Moby Dick was published, making me feel as if I made my own small contribution to the world of books. Most importantly, I awoke my brain.
The morning after my final class, I awoke early out of habit to begin my time-to-make-the-donuts routine. Still half asleep, I made coffee, let the dogs out, grabbed a pen, and sat at the dining room table where a slew of open notebooks, journal articles and books awaited me for the past few years. Not this time. The books and papers on the table were closed and neatly stacked. I was done. Perhaps it was sleep deprivation, perhaps it was sentiment, but either way, I looked at my closed books and cried. I cried because I was sad to see it end; I cried because I pulled it off. I recalled one of my favorite lines from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn which reads, “Eyes changed after they looked at new things.” Grad school took me on walks along Walden Pond, shipped me off with Ishmael, sent me running away with Sethe. Grad school introduced me to so many characters and places that I’d otherwise need ten lifetimes to know them. Grad school changed how I saw the world, my future, myself. So why an English degree? If there’s a better use for time or money than that, I’d love to hear it.
The fault wasn't with the job. I’ve been fortunate to work in web development and design, a creative career that forces the left and right halves of my brain to play nice. The deeper I dug into my field, however, the more shallow I felt beyond it. I was smart at one point, right? Didn’t I once think, you know, like things and stuff? I decided to do what confused people do: go to grad school.
When I told my boss that I wouldn’t be able to work late Tuesdays and Thursdays because I started my Masters, her eyes lit up. She reached for the company’s tuition reimbursement form and asked what program I began: IT? Business? “No,” I replied, “English!” Hopped up on idealism and three cups of coffee, I shared my vision with her: nights of discussing Shakespeare or laughing over Twain, reading great books and hearing wise professors! Didn’t it sound like so much fun? She supposed it did and then took back the tuition reimbursement form.
Some of my well-intentioned colleagues attempted an intervention. Why English? Did I know that choosing a degree in my field meant that the company would pay for it? I did. Did I realize that this degree offered no hope of a raise and only qualified me for a teaching career which paid woefully little in NC? Yep.
The friends who got it, though, really got it. One friend smiled and replied, “Good. I think that when people go to school for the purpose of making more money, we shouldn’t even call it education.” Ouch. (But amen.)
The following three years were exhausting, stressful, and absolutely wonderful. I felt like me at my best. My professors were among the most inspiring and knowledgeable (and funny!) teachers I've had. Class discussions were so engaging that I’d come home too excited to sleep. My paper on Moby Dick was published, making me feel as if I made my own small contribution to the world of books. Most importantly, I awoke my brain.
The morning after my final class, I awoke early out of habit to begin my time-to-make-the-donuts routine. Still half asleep, I made coffee, let the dogs out, grabbed a pen, and sat at the dining room table where a slew of open notebooks, journal articles and books awaited me for the past few years. Not this time. The books and papers on the table were closed and neatly stacked. I was done. Perhaps it was sleep deprivation, perhaps it was sentiment, but either way, I looked at my closed books and cried. I cried because I was sad to see it end; I cried because I pulled it off. I recalled one of my favorite lines from A Tree Grows in Brooklyn which reads, “Eyes changed after they looked at new things.” Grad school took me on walks along Walden Pond, shipped me off with Ishmael, sent me running away with Sethe. Grad school introduced me to so many characters and places that I’d otherwise need ten lifetimes to know them. Grad school changed how I saw the world, my future, myself. So why an English degree? If there’s a better use for time or money than that, I’d love to hear it.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
It’s Not You, It’s Me: Dumping The 24-Hour News Networks
“Taking a break from news” seems to be 2009’s staycation of choice. After a while, watching screaming matches and listening to red herring, alarmist arguments becomes infuriating and depressing. No wonder people walk away. I can't accept that this is a matter of attention to current events, though, but the consumption of irresponsible news. I single out the 24-hour news networks as a main culprit.
Twenty-four hour cable news networks are a bad idea. Watching them is a worse one. The sure-fire way to keep eyeballs on screens is to promote fear and sensationalism; to gain broad viewership, issues become dumbed-down dichotomies of pro versus con that even the laziest viewers will grasp; to beat the competition, stories aren’t properly verified before the rush to air; to create famous “news personalities,” cleavage and bad behavior are rewarded with regular appearances (or sometimes even their own shows). These networks do offer good journalists like Zakaria and Amanpour, but they seem too few and far between. Twenty-four programming relies on quantity of words over quality of reporting. Although the American marketplace of ideas is one of the best ideas we’ve had, its success relies on responsible judgment. Most programs on the 24-hour news networks are at the 99-cent table at the marketplace of ideas, and it’s up to us to invest in something better. It seems that many people watch these channels not to learn about their world but to solidify their belief that they are smarter or more ethical than the people on screen, an easy feat against such competition.
The big issues are as tough as they are critical, and to respond wisely we must appreciate their complexities. Healthcare, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, immigration, free trade, alternative sources of energy, education quality and affordability: none of these provide an easy option free of unfortunate consequences, and (to quote Princess Bride) anyone who says differently is selling something.
Quality journalism is out there. We must choose it. If your means of gathering news makes the issues seem black and white or makes humanity seem either wise or stupid, then it’s not the right choice. If your means of gathering news propels you to mock more than you learn, it’s not the right choice. If your means of gathering news involves raised voices or name calling, again, it’s just not it. Although I cringe when I come across these methods and realize that committing any of them would have failed me out of my college journalism program, I blame the people who refuse to change the channel or turn off the TV more I blame those on the air. These networks are like the fast food of news: fine to consume every once in a while, but only alongside a steady diet of healthier fare.
As for me, I love settling into my reading chair with a big cup of coffee and my New York Times or Atlantic Monthly, to work with NPR in the background, to check in with NBC Nightly News with Dreamy Brian Williams most evenings, and to end my night with BBC World News. This is a good balance for me: these outlets are thorough, informative, and don't freak me out with apocalyptic predictions or crazy CGI. They don't pander to ego; I don’t want news to make me feel like the smartest person alive, and I don’t wish to believe that people I disagree with are simpletons or evil-doers. Instead I want my news to compel me to think, “Well crap, I didn’t think about it that way.”
The 24-hour networks are making us stupid, making us depressed, and at times, making us hate. How we process information affects the functioning of the brain, which needs exercise like any other muscle. Not much mind-flexing occurs while listening to yelling matches consisting of “I’m right, and you hate America!” coming from either side. Let’s not be in such a rush to consume news that we turn to the 24-hour networks. Let’s not be in such a rush to call someone an idiot that we forget to make ourselves intelligent.
Twenty-four hour cable news networks are a bad idea. Watching them is a worse one. The sure-fire way to keep eyeballs on screens is to promote fear and sensationalism; to gain broad viewership, issues become dumbed-down dichotomies of pro versus con that even the laziest viewers will grasp; to beat the competition, stories aren’t properly verified before the rush to air; to create famous “news personalities,” cleavage and bad behavior are rewarded with regular appearances (or sometimes even their own shows). These networks do offer good journalists like Zakaria and Amanpour, but they seem too few and far between. Twenty-four programming relies on quantity of words over quality of reporting. Although the American marketplace of ideas is one of the best ideas we’ve had, its success relies on responsible judgment. Most programs on the 24-hour news networks are at the 99-cent table at the marketplace of ideas, and it’s up to us to invest in something better. It seems that many people watch these channels not to learn about their world but to solidify their belief that they are smarter or more ethical than the people on screen, an easy feat against such competition.
The big issues are as tough as they are critical, and to respond wisely we must appreciate their complexities. Healthcare, the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, immigration, free trade, alternative sources of energy, education quality and affordability: none of these provide an easy option free of unfortunate consequences, and (to quote Princess Bride) anyone who says differently is selling something.
Quality journalism is out there. We must choose it. If your means of gathering news makes the issues seem black and white or makes humanity seem either wise or stupid, then it’s not the right choice. If your means of gathering news propels you to mock more than you learn, it’s not the right choice. If your means of gathering news involves raised voices or name calling, again, it’s just not it. Although I cringe when I come across these methods and realize that committing any of them would have failed me out of my college journalism program, I blame the people who refuse to change the channel or turn off the TV more I blame those on the air. These networks are like the fast food of news: fine to consume every once in a while, but only alongside a steady diet of healthier fare.
As for me, I love settling into my reading chair with a big cup of coffee and my New York Times or Atlantic Monthly, to work with NPR in the background, to check in with NBC Nightly News with Dreamy Brian Williams most evenings, and to end my night with BBC World News. This is a good balance for me: these outlets are thorough, informative, and don't freak me out with apocalyptic predictions or crazy CGI. They don't pander to ego; I don’t want news to make me feel like the smartest person alive, and I don’t wish to believe that people I disagree with are simpletons or evil-doers. Instead I want my news to compel me to think, “Well crap, I didn’t think about it that way.”
The 24-hour networks are making us stupid, making us depressed, and at times, making us hate. How we process information affects the functioning of the brain, which needs exercise like any other muscle. Not much mind-flexing occurs while listening to yelling matches consisting of “I’m right, and you hate America!” coming from either side. Let’s not be in such a rush to consume news that we turn to the 24-hour networks. Let’s not be in such a rush to call someone an idiot that we forget to make ourselves intelligent.
Thursday, August 20, 2009
The Healthcare Debate is Making Me Ill
I'm disheartened to see the healthcare debate de-evolve into a chaotic, uninformed mess. People who oppose Obama on other grounds use this debate as a vehicle for anger and indignation. The great majority of the public, myself included, lack the expertise to definitively suggest a solution. Physicians, economists, insurance executives, and patients all must contribute knowledge and learn from each other. I have an opinion based on what I've researched so far (a public option must be available to truly offer universal coverage and to challenge the private insurance companies' inflated pricing; regulations must force insurance companies not to discriminate in coverage, especially against the sick and elderly; all people must be encouraged to consider and plan for end-of-life options so that their wills are carried out so a family is not bankrupted by medical methods that a patient would oppose anyway). I also know, however, that I need to continually learn and adjust my opinion accordingly. No one's learning when everyone's yelling, though. Here are some of the reasons why protesters are clouding the debate and not helping it.
Note: A lot of my blog harkens back to the previous administration. I hate to examine the current situation by looking back on Bush (I hate to look back on Bush in general), yet the credibility of so many protesters is up for scrutiny when the main focus of their hatred is not big government or a deficit (which most conservatives previously ignored or supported) but a gripe against Obama himself. I want a productive debate and not a grudge match based on convenient and newly acquired values.
Nazi Germany/Communist China/Remember the Soviet Union?
Holy monkey, what is with all of the ignorant comparisons? You'd think there were two models in the world: American model versus total tyranny. The public insurance option is not a slippery slope to the Fourth Reich. The closest resemblance this proposed program bears to an existing healthcare program is Switzerland. Ooh, scary, tyrannical Switzerland! We'd be stripped of all personal freedoms but the right to great skiing! For this, Paul Krugman puts it far better than I can: The Swiss Menace.
Big Government Haters
We have people decrying big government. Fair enough. Yet most of these people turned a blind eye to the Patriot Act which granted government the right to access Americans' medical and tax records, see what books they borrow from the library, and even conduct secret searches. Envision the resulting outrage if Obama announced he'd allow the government to search our homes without a warrant or our knowledge that a search occurred. Yet Bush and Cheney did that without garnering a raised eyebrow from most conservatives. While I understand conservatives' concern over big government, I cannot take this concern seriously from anyone who supported the previous administration, which exercised the greatest amount of government authority in recent American history. It's ideologically inconsistent.
Deficit Spending
Again, I understand that people who are conservative oppose high government spending, even during a time of recession. I don't agree, but I get it. What I don't get is where the outrage was when Bush took the budget from a surplus into staggering deficit spending? Where was the outrage when Bush and Paulson began the government bailout system? (Why don't people remember that drastic stimulus spending did not begin with Obama?) Where was the conservative outrage when Bush passed over twenty of the first spending bills that hit his desk? Where was the outrage in 2003 when Bush passed the largest expansion of Medicare in its history?
Gun Toters
And then there are the crazies who show up to healthcare rallies -- HEALTHCARE RALLIES -- with loaded weapons. They cite their Constitutional right to bear arms, but fail to cite why that particular right feels threatened by a public insurance plan. Imagine what most Americans would think of a group of Americans of Arabic descent protesting against the American government bearing automatic weapons, just as protesters bore automatic weapons at an Obama event recently. Would we be talking about protecting Constitutional rights or talking about a clear and present danger to a president and everyone present?
Yellers of Fury
These are the people at town halls and protests proving that people compensate for ignorance with volume. They yell about Obama killing their grandma, they yell about the government taking over Medicare (??), they shout over their congressperson or senator. They remember that the Bill of Rights guarantees their right to free speech while forgetting that it allows other people the ability to speak as well. The Supreme Court ruling citing the unlawfulness of shouting fire in a crowded theatre seems to apply here: personal freedoms are not protected when they interfere with others' freedoms. When these protesters are asked to leave, they talk about this country becoming Nazi Germany. Do they remember that the Republican National Committee required people attending rallies to sign loyalty oaths to Bush? Where was their righteous indignation then? Again, I cringe at the inconsistency: Bush can insist that only his supporters are allowed in a room with him and somehow come off as patriotic; when protesters who are strapped to loaded weapons arrive at Obama's speeches and people frown upon that, Obama's somehow socialist.
Speaking Of...
Can we please offer a civics class and teach Americans what socialism is?
The "I'm as good as you are" Syndrome
There is something poignant and beautiful about our political system -- that our votes all count the same, that we're all equal. There's also something dangerous about this. I cringe to see people spouting views that are not factually accurate who believe that opinion is equally valid to researched conclusion of an expert. Perhaps we need to respect the intelligence of those who have spent their lives devoted to their causes, that we need to listen more than we speak, that we need to recognize the gaps in our knowledge. Many people pretend to shun intellectual elitism or snobbery when their true opposition is knowledge itself. Experts know more about healthcare and economics than I do, even though I've invested a good deal of time into trying to understand this issue. At this point in the debate, my job is to listen and learn, even when (and especially when) intelligent and reasonable people explain why they oppose my view. I've protested in the past, will protest again in the future, and respect people who do so; yet I only respect protesters who have done their homework first.
Note: A lot of my blog harkens back to the previous administration. I hate to examine the current situation by looking back on Bush (I hate to look back on Bush in general), yet the credibility of so many protesters is up for scrutiny when the main focus of their hatred is not big government or a deficit (which most conservatives previously ignored or supported) but a gripe against Obama himself. I want a productive debate and not a grudge match based on convenient and newly acquired values.
Nazi Germany/Communist China/Remember the Soviet Union?
Holy monkey, what is with all of the ignorant comparisons? You'd think there were two models in the world: American model versus total tyranny. The public insurance option is not a slippery slope to the Fourth Reich. The closest resemblance this proposed program bears to an existing healthcare program is Switzerland. Ooh, scary, tyrannical Switzerland! We'd be stripped of all personal freedoms but the right to great skiing! For this, Paul Krugman puts it far better than I can: The Swiss Menace.
Big Government Haters
We have people decrying big government. Fair enough. Yet most of these people turned a blind eye to the Patriot Act which granted government the right to access Americans' medical and tax records, see what books they borrow from the library, and even conduct secret searches. Envision the resulting outrage if Obama announced he'd allow the government to search our homes without a warrant or our knowledge that a search occurred. Yet Bush and Cheney did that without garnering a raised eyebrow from most conservatives. While I understand conservatives' concern over big government, I cannot take this concern seriously from anyone who supported the previous administration, which exercised the greatest amount of government authority in recent American history. It's ideologically inconsistent.
Deficit Spending
Again, I understand that people who are conservative oppose high government spending, even during a time of recession. I don't agree, but I get it. What I don't get is where the outrage was when Bush took the budget from a surplus into staggering deficit spending? Where was the outrage when Bush and Paulson began the government bailout system? (Why don't people remember that drastic stimulus spending did not begin with Obama?) Where was the conservative outrage when Bush passed over twenty of the first spending bills that hit his desk? Where was the outrage in 2003 when Bush passed the largest expansion of Medicare in its history?
Gun Toters
And then there are the crazies who show up to healthcare rallies -- HEALTHCARE RALLIES -- with loaded weapons. They cite their Constitutional right to bear arms, but fail to cite why that particular right feels threatened by a public insurance plan. Imagine what most Americans would think of a group of Americans of Arabic descent protesting against the American government bearing automatic weapons, just as protesters bore automatic weapons at an Obama event recently. Would we be talking about protecting Constitutional rights or talking about a clear and present danger to a president and everyone present?
Yellers of Fury
These are the people at town halls and protests proving that people compensate for ignorance with volume. They yell about Obama killing their grandma, they yell about the government taking over Medicare (??), they shout over their congressperson or senator. They remember that the Bill of Rights guarantees their right to free speech while forgetting that it allows other people the ability to speak as well. The Supreme Court ruling citing the unlawfulness of shouting fire in a crowded theatre seems to apply here: personal freedoms are not protected when they interfere with others' freedoms. When these protesters are asked to leave, they talk about this country becoming Nazi Germany. Do they remember that the Republican National Committee required people attending rallies to sign loyalty oaths to Bush? Where was their righteous indignation then? Again, I cringe at the inconsistency: Bush can insist that only his supporters are allowed in a room with him and somehow come off as patriotic; when protesters who are strapped to loaded weapons arrive at Obama's speeches and people frown upon that, Obama's somehow socialist.
Speaking Of...
Can we please offer a civics class and teach Americans what socialism is?
The "I'm as good as you are" Syndrome
There is something poignant and beautiful about our political system -- that our votes all count the same, that we're all equal. There's also something dangerous about this. I cringe to see people spouting views that are not factually accurate who believe that opinion is equally valid to researched conclusion of an expert. Perhaps we need to respect the intelligence of those who have spent their lives devoted to their causes, that we need to listen more than we speak, that we need to recognize the gaps in our knowledge. Many people pretend to shun intellectual elitism or snobbery when their true opposition is knowledge itself. Experts know more about healthcare and economics than I do, even though I've invested a good deal of time into trying to understand this issue. At this point in the debate, my job is to listen and learn, even when (and especially when) intelligent and reasonable people explain why they oppose my view. I've protested in the past, will protest again in the future, and respect people who do so; yet I only respect protesters who have done their homework first.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
"Un tavolo per due, per favore."
When talking about my big trips, the subject invariably returns to food. Advice we received in Italy seems applicable to every place we‘ve been: the best meals you’re going to eat are not in expensive restaurants, but in small, unassuming places tucked away. Finding these places have been highlights of our travel.
Jimmy and I pass many an evening on the back porch reminiscing upon great meals we've had while traveling. Some are obvious (the Guinness and lamb stew of Ireland, the curry of London), some were surprises (our favorite pizza spot? Paris!), some were so blissful that we stop and sigh when we remember. Our trip to Italy still inspires such moments of silent, blissful reverence.
Rome. I’m putting Rome down as the location for the best meal of my life. It came courtesy of Osteria Ponte Sisto in the Trastevere neighborhood, a place that we spent an hour walking to because it came highly recommended by our trusty friend Rick Steves. It was the only time I’ve let so much of my order up to the discretion of the restaurant owner and humbled myself enough to ask stupid questions like, “How do I eat this? Do I eat this part, too?” Glad I did. L‘antipasto: Fried artichoke. The owner told us that in Italy, you eat every bite, down to the stem. Delicious!
Primo: spaghetti with grilled mussels, octopus, and cherry tomatoes. Everything was so fresh! The flavors so vivid! Secondo: fried octopus. Yummy down to the last tentacle. And throughout the meal (which lasted over two hours), we sipped away a bottle of local white wine while sitting at a table on a quiet side street in Rome, lined with scooters and across from a small church. We spent the long walk home in culinary afterglow, walking arm and arm, smiling, and reminiscing on the meal we had just minutes earlier.
Gelato. And, of course, the gelato! Before I knew the Italian words to ask where to find a bathroom or how to ask the price of an item, I knew how to ask for various kinds of gelato (in a cone, in a cup, two scoops, maybe three), how to ask for a small taste to sample, and how to ask which flavors “married” well for an ultimate flavor combination. (Food is a great motivator for my foreign language skills.) I used these phrases frequently -- most days I had three cones with two flavors on each. We were there eight days, so you do the math. My goal was to determine the ultimate flavor combinations for each time of day: a lovely breakfast gelato (espresso and dark chocolate), mid-day snack (mint-chocolate chip and stracciatella), and post-dinner cone for the stroll home (stracciatella and tiramasu). Rice-flavored gelato? Surprisingly delicious. To prove just how much walking we did in Italy, I ate nothing but gelato, pizza, pasta, and bread for a week and still came home a few pounds lighter. Who says eating well is not hard work?
Jimmy and I pass many an evening on the back porch reminiscing upon great meals we've had while traveling. Some are obvious (the Guinness and lamb stew of Ireland, the curry of London), some were surprises (our favorite pizza spot? Paris!), some were so blissful that we stop and sigh when we remember. Our trip to Italy still inspires such moments of silent, blissful reverence.
Rome. I’m putting Rome down as the location for the best meal of my life. It came courtesy of Osteria Ponte Sisto in the Trastevere neighborhood, a place that we spent an hour walking to because it came highly recommended by our trusty friend Rick Steves. It was the only time I’ve let so much of my order up to the discretion of the restaurant owner and humbled myself enough to ask stupid questions like, “How do I eat this? Do I eat this part, too?” Glad I did. L‘antipasto: Fried artichoke. The owner told us that in Italy, you eat every bite, down to the stem. Delicious!
Primo: spaghetti with grilled mussels, octopus, and cherry tomatoes. Everything was so fresh! The flavors so vivid! Secondo: fried octopus. Yummy down to the last tentacle. And throughout the meal (which lasted over two hours), we sipped away a bottle of local white wine while sitting at a table on a quiet side street in Rome, lined with scooters and across from a small church. We spent the long walk home in culinary afterglow, walking arm and arm, smiling, and reminiscing on the meal we had just minutes earlier.Gelato. And, of course, the gelato! Before I knew the Italian words to ask where to find a bathroom or how to ask the price of an item, I knew how to ask for various kinds of gelato (in a cone, in a cup, two scoops, maybe three), how to ask for a small taste to sample, and how to ask which flavors “married” well for an ultimate flavor combination. (Food is a great motivator for my foreign language skills.) I used these phrases frequently -- most days I had three cones with two flavors on each. We were there eight days, so you do the math. My goal was to determine the ultimate flavor combinations for each time of day: a lovely breakfast gelato (espresso and dark chocolate), mid-day snack (mint-chocolate chip and stracciatella), and post-dinner cone for the stroll home (stracciatella and tiramasu). Rice-flavored gelato? Surprisingly delicious. To prove just how much walking we did in Italy, I ate nothing but gelato, pizza, pasta, and bread for a week and still came home a few pounds lighter. Who says eating well is not hard work?
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Florence (Site of the Battle of the Beetle)
Florence felt more like home than the other cities we visited in Italy. This was mainly an issue of time (we spent the most nights here) and location (we opted for an apartment over a hotel). It allowed us to get into the groove of the town. Each morning, we lingered over cappuccino and pastry at the bar across the street (they had a signature donut that ruined me on the idea of any other donut) and shopped at the neighborhood market for produce and necessities (ask Jimmy about his Italian underwear). In the evenings, after we played tourist all day, we’d duck into a café for a drink or two, stop by the grocery and gelateria, stroll through the piazza on the corner filled with people enjoying conversation and a nightcap, and return home to finish the night lounging on our patio. It was a great routine.This, however, paints an all-too-quaint picture of our stay in our Florence apartment. While hotels offer a cheery, English-speaking concierge to make transportation and other arrangements, we had no such advantage. Instead, we humiliated ourselves daily in a language that could only be described as Spanitalgish. No nearby restaurants offered menu translations; the local market didn‘t bail us out in English like the tourist one did. But I really dug this! It was an interesting -- and humbling! -- experience to flail about in another language. I used what little Italian I knew to attempt conversations, I carried my guidebook and phrase book with no shame, and I tried to feel at peace with appearing like a simpleton. At least I was a simpleton who earnestly tried. My self-administered final exam was wandering the local market alone, shopping for clothes, produce, and attempting small talk with merchants. This little exercise was exhausting, but I came away with one shirt, two tomatoes, two cloves of garlic, and half a pound of mozzarella di bufala -- all of which, luckily, I meant to ask for.
Then there was the issue of unexpected apartment guests: the mega-bugs. Picture a giant beetle wearing patent leather armor. The singular qualities of these mega-bugs was their assertiveness and resistance to death. We would wail on them with heavy shoes and no mercy (sorry, PETA), yet they would go on, dented but undaunted. One night, I awoke to find one climbing on the sheet atop Jimmy’s shoulder, scampering toward his face. (Note to self: waking Jimmy by tapping his forehead and whispering, “Don’t move” alarms him.) The next morning we shopped for mega-bug death spray. No big deal, right? Try shopping for insect repellent without knowing the language! The directions never included our handy memorized Italian phrases (“We would like a bottle of red wine,” “Where is the bathroom?” or “Yes I am American, but I voted for Obama.”). Luckily, one can offered an illustration of our culprit with a red line through it. Bingo.
It’s interesting to see how a week’s worth of vacation experiences become condensed into a few key tales to tell friends back home. It’s interesting to see which details are included, which omitted, and which will be slowly forgotten over time. I’m ashamed to admit that when I reminisce over Florence, it rarely is about the art, palaces, or cathedrals, which were stunningly beautiful and reason enough to visit the city. I usually smile and describe what it felt like to be in Florence, to slow down, to stroll streets lined with incredible architecture while eating my third gelato of the day, to attempt Italian with dubious results, to sit each morning with a cappuccino and world’s best donut while watching the neighborhood around me slowly come to life. And somehow, I laugh the most over those damn bugs. My apologies to Raphael.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Venice (Or, In Piazza San Marco With No Baedeker)
Open sewer. Stinky. Crowded. These were the general impressions of Venice given to us ahead of our trip. Close to our departure, though, a few well-trusted sources told us to stay in Venice because we’d never be anywhere like it again. It’s hard to turn down such advice.
It was true: Piazza San Marco was insufferably crowded when we arrived in the morning. It was easy to miss the beauty because it took too much energy to walk five steps. After maneuvering through the crowds, we reached our hotel (kudos to Jimmy for finding it; I was never not lost in Venice). The concierge advised his two weary travelers to go to the Rialto Bridge: to the left, tourists; to the right, Venice. He was right. Within a five-minute walk was a tranquil Venice. We had no agenda but to explore. We had no guidebook but only our eyeballs to decipher surroundings. Walking aimlessly meant constant surprises. Some surprises charmed us: rooftop gardens, cool architecture, and the sweet elderly woman who didn't seem to mind that we couldn't understand her conversation. The bigger surprises wowed us: one unassuming street opened to a piazza flanked by two cathedrals where a man performed an impromtu opera for the enjoyment (and euros) of onlookers. In a papershop, an enthusiastic owner took us to the back room to demonstrate the centuries-old Italian technique to design painted papers. In a public park, we explored a garden with time-worn statues peeking out from ivy,
we ducked into shady alcoves enclosed by tree branches. Then we saw another beautiful sight: cruise ships and their hordes departing for the evening, making it safe to return to Piazza San Marco. Ciao, crowds. Buena sera, Venice.
Venice at night was splendid. The narrow streets were only partially lit by the glow of shop and restaurant windows. Lights danced across water. Music was everywhere. Piazza San Marco seemed more majestic when not under the duress of crowds. The restaurants along the piazza had outdoor stages for bands; each band took a turn to wow the crowd and even compelled couples and groups to dance. Jimmy and I sat on steps in a far corner of the piazza, enjoying the music, the dancers, and those out for a stroll, all with San Marco as a backdrop. It was a perfect moment.
We missed the big Venetian sights suggested in most guidebooks: we didn't enter San Marco or the Doge's Palace, we skipped the gondola ride. But we did debunk the theory of Venice as stinky and crowded. Not even. Perhaps it took losing the guidebook to see it.
It was true: Piazza San Marco was insufferably crowded when we arrived in the morning. It was easy to miss the beauty because it took too much energy to walk five steps. After maneuvering through the crowds, we reached our hotel (kudos to Jimmy for finding it; I was never not lost in Venice). The concierge advised his two weary travelers to go to the Rialto Bridge: to the left, tourists; to the right, Venice. He was right. Within a five-minute walk was a tranquil Venice. We had no agenda but to explore. We had no guidebook but only our eyeballs to decipher surroundings. Walking aimlessly meant constant surprises. Some surprises charmed us: rooftop gardens, cool architecture, and the sweet elderly woman who didn't seem to mind that we couldn't understand her conversation. The bigger surprises wowed us: one unassuming street opened to a piazza flanked by two cathedrals where a man performed an impromtu opera for the enjoyment (and euros) of onlookers. In a papershop, an enthusiastic owner took us to the back room to demonstrate the centuries-old Italian technique to design painted papers. In a public park, we explored a garden with time-worn statues peeking out from ivy,
we ducked into shady alcoves enclosed by tree branches. Then we saw another beautiful sight: cruise ships and their hordes departing for the evening, making it safe to return to Piazza San Marco. Ciao, crowds. Buena sera, Venice.
Venice at night was splendid. The narrow streets were only partially lit by the glow of shop and restaurant windows. Lights danced across water. Music was everywhere. Piazza San Marco seemed more majestic when not under the duress of crowds. The restaurants along the piazza had outdoor stages for bands; each band took a turn to wow the crowd and even compelled couples and groups to dance. Jimmy and I sat on steps in a far corner of the piazza, enjoying the music, the dancers, and those out for a stroll, all with San Marco as a backdrop. It was a perfect moment.We missed the big Venetian sights suggested in most guidebooks: we didn't enter San Marco or the Doge's Palace, we skipped the gondola ride. But we did debunk the theory of Venice as stinky and crowded. Not even. Perhaps it took losing the guidebook to see it.
Friday, February 20, 2009
Friendly Fire (or, The Personal is Political, Part II)
Recently I made the unfortunate decision to join women I didn't know well for a day trip, despite knowing that such adventures should be ones that allow for quick bailing. During the car ride to our destination, I learned why I hadn't spent more time with these women. They terrified me. Their favorite topic of conversation was their husbands, whom they loved to talk about but didn't seem to like very much. They shared stories of husbands who were so stupid they couldn't do laundry or who were so inept that they could not "babysit" their own children. What bothered me more than what these women said, though, was how they spoke: they seemed proud to one-up each other in stories of clueless men, beginning tales with, "Oh, you think THAT is dumb! Well MY husband..." They showed no sense of injustice or any desire to change the situation. Seeing their husbands as clueless seemed to give them a role, a sense of power. I tried to wipe the incredulous look from my face while I wondered why anyone would marry someone they didn't respect or why I had the great idea to go on a day-long outing with people I barely knew.
Yet these supposedly stupid husbands seemed cunning to me. They had someone to do laundry, cook, raise children, and also work a job to provide half of the household income. If I could somehow convince my husband that my wee little lady brain lacked the ability to comprehend the sorting of laundry or the cleaning of toilets, I'd be tempted to give it a shot. Credit for egalitarian relationships is not only due to the non-knuckle-dragging men who cook and clean (and please, it's not "pitching in" when it's their own home), but to women who resist outdated gender roles and require men to do their share. Merely complaining about it has all the effectiveness of breathlessly clutching at pearls.
When venturing beyond my egalitarian-loving social circle (where men do laundry without expecting a merit badge), I realize that a good deal of the inequality women face is perpetuated by women themselves; we're going down by friendly fire. The chaos is understandable, though -- the enormity of the social shift that our generation finds itself in cannot be overstated. Many of us born in the 70s were born during a transitional time of mixed messages. While many of us were raised with the idea we could be anything we wanted to be, any professional success came along with a duty to marry, have children, and handle the duties of the home. Most of us were not raised with the expectation of becoming as professionally successful or as financially savvy as our husbands. Yet our generation was the first where women not only outnumbered men in the college classroom, but outperformed them as well; some sociologists believe women now show greater professional ambition and work harder in the workforce (my offices have shown anecdotal evidence supporting this). Women are in unchartered marital territory full of options but not much precedent; taking on new responsibilities seems easier than delegating old ones. Venting with girlfriends is easier than insisting on new rules with husbands. I read a quote from the 70s in which a feminist (Steinem, I believe?) offered a married woman the advice to pretend she was dividing household duties with her best friend and then not to lower that standard with her husband. While this 30-year-old advice seems forehead-smackingly obvious, apparently this memo has not been widely circulated. It's easier for some women to think of their husbands as stupid than to realize they're victims of the patriarchal systems of their own making.
There's an email forward that gets passed around every few years in which a wife details the average night in her home. The wife announces she's going to bed and then bathes the baby, does the dishes, folds the laundry, makes tomorrow's lunches, prepares for a morning meeting, and THEN goes to bed. The man says he's going to bed and then just goes to bed. Somehow, there are women who find this email hilarious, who add smiley faces and "Isn't this the truth??" before forwarding on. I sit there screaming at this fictional woman who doesn't tell this dude to get his butt off the couch and make some lunches, which is not prevented by the presence of a Y chromosome. I usually direct much of my feminist angst towards laws and policies which place women in unfair and subordinate positions. Yet during times like my fun little day trip, I realize that my little group of progressive friends doesn't always represent who's really out there, and more of my feminist angst should go toward the women themselves who are more comfortable confronting a boss about a promotion than a husband about the laundry.
Yet these supposedly stupid husbands seemed cunning to me. They had someone to do laundry, cook, raise children, and also work a job to provide half of the household income. If I could somehow convince my husband that my wee little lady brain lacked the ability to comprehend the sorting of laundry or the cleaning of toilets, I'd be tempted to give it a shot. Credit for egalitarian relationships is not only due to the non-knuckle-dragging men who cook and clean (and please, it's not "pitching in" when it's their own home), but to women who resist outdated gender roles and require men to do their share. Merely complaining about it has all the effectiveness of breathlessly clutching at pearls.
When venturing beyond my egalitarian-loving social circle (where men do laundry without expecting a merit badge), I realize that a good deal of the inequality women face is perpetuated by women themselves; we're going down by friendly fire. The chaos is understandable, though -- the enormity of the social shift that our generation finds itself in cannot be overstated. Many of us born in the 70s were born during a transitional time of mixed messages. While many of us were raised with the idea we could be anything we wanted to be, any professional success came along with a duty to marry, have children, and handle the duties of the home. Most of us were not raised with the expectation of becoming as professionally successful or as financially savvy as our husbands. Yet our generation was the first where women not only outnumbered men in the college classroom, but outperformed them as well; some sociologists believe women now show greater professional ambition and work harder in the workforce (my offices have shown anecdotal evidence supporting this). Women are in unchartered marital territory full of options but not much precedent; taking on new responsibilities seems easier than delegating old ones. Venting with girlfriends is easier than insisting on new rules with husbands. I read a quote from the 70s in which a feminist (Steinem, I believe?) offered a married woman the advice to pretend she was dividing household duties with her best friend and then not to lower that standard with her husband. While this 30-year-old advice seems forehead-smackingly obvious, apparently this memo has not been widely circulated. It's easier for some women to think of their husbands as stupid than to realize they're victims of the patriarchal systems of their own making.
There's an email forward that gets passed around every few years in which a wife details the average night in her home. The wife announces she's going to bed and then bathes the baby, does the dishes, folds the laundry, makes tomorrow's lunches, prepares for a morning meeting, and THEN goes to bed. The man says he's going to bed and then just goes to bed. Somehow, there are women who find this email hilarious, who add smiley faces and "Isn't this the truth??" before forwarding on. I sit there screaming at this fictional woman who doesn't tell this dude to get his butt off the couch and make some lunches, which is not prevented by the presence of a Y chromosome. I usually direct much of my feminist angst towards laws and policies which place women in unfair and subordinate positions. Yet during times like my fun little day trip, I realize that my little group of progressive friends doesn't always represent who's really out there, and more of my feminist angst should go toward the women themselves who are more comfortable confronting a boss about a promotion than a husband about the laundry.
Tuesday, February 03, 2009
You like me! You really, kind of, sort of like me!
I find that the gap between who we pretend to be and who we really are is an area infinitely interesting to examine in others and terrifying to notice in ourselves. It seems to be our most telling detail: that gap is where we’re exposed for the flawed, hypocritical creatures we really are; it’s where we look into the magnified mirror under florescent lighting and shudder a little at the truth. But I believe it’s good to know our whole selves, who we’re dealing with on a daily basis, and this is a good place to start.
One such gap I have deals with likeability. I believe that women are sold a false bill of goods when we’re girls -- that, above all, we should be pleasing and likeable to all. Cinderella craved the acceptance of the horrid step-sisters; Snow White made it her mission to win over seven distinctly different personality types. We use code words like "charm" and "etiquette" for the true goal: to make girls universally pleasing, liked, and utterly and sadly generic. Boys should be respectable, girls should be likeable. And if you think that doesn't hold true through adulthood, just listen to the different adjectives used to describe the men and women of politics or even your workplace.
That’s why I dug the Hillary Clinton and Martha Stewart of yore. These women were too busy living to vie for our acceptance. Clinton (and I mean the pre-candidate Clinton) seemed to give a flying flip whether she was liked. Respected? Sure. Listened to? Absolutely. Liked? Whatev. Martha Stewart (and I mean the pre-prison Stewart) cut the chit-chat short and got to her work of running a business empire. She was trying to build a brand, not her Facebook friend list. (Sadly, both women have faced the choice of irrelevancy or learning to adopt behavior more suited to The View. That's another topic for another blog.)
As much as I may fancy myself otherwise, a Hillary or Martha I am not. I’ve taken strides since my early twenties, back when I found it a talent to meld into any number of groups; however I still experience moments of wanting to be liked by all. This is not a reasonable or admirable goal. Despite being generally amiable, social, and up for a laugh, I have personality traits that prevent universal friendship, as does anyone with a hint of personality or self awareness. Yet appallingly I’ve realized that I have the nerve to become offended when someone I don’t even like doesn’t like me back. I know that popularity is a poor indicator of substance, as indicated by Nicholas Sparks’ eternal presence on the bestseller lists, but despite everything I know to be true, it sometimes bugs the crap out of me not to be liked.
When this gap emerges between who I claim to be and who I really can be, it’s an immediate indicator that I’ve fallen away from my center. That’s when I return to the Gospel of Didion (Joan Didion’s excellent essay, “On Self Respect”): “The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others--who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation, which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O’Hara, is something people with courage can do without… Character--the willingness to accept responsibility for one’s own life--is the source from which self-respect springs.”
So there it is. Placing value upon being liked is the cheap, knock-off version of respecting and liking oneself. The gap that appears in my psyche from time to time is merely an indicator that something is off elsewhere, and that something has everything to do with me and not with you. And although recognizing that the "official" versions of ourselves don't always match the real deal is not a fun exercise, it's a meaningful one nonetheless.
But I really am a nice person. Really.
One such gap I have deals with likeability. I believe that women are sold a false bill of goods when we’re girls -- that, above all, we should be pleasing and likeable to all. Cinderella craved the acceptance of the horrid step-sisters; Snow White made it her mission to win over seven distinctly different personality types. We use code words like "charm" and "etiquette" for the true goal: to make girls universally pleasing, liked, and utterly and sadly generic. Boys should be respectable, girls should be likeable. And if you think that doesn't hold true through adulthood, just listen to the different adjectives used to describe the men and women of politics or even your workplace.
That’s why I dug the Hillary Clinton and Martha Stewart of yore. These women were too busy living to vie for our acceptance. Clinton (and I mean the pre-candidate Clinton) seemed to give a flying flip whether she was liked. Respected? Sure. Listened to? Absolutely. Liked? Whatev. Martha Stewart (and I mean the pre-prison Stewart) cut the chit-chat short and got to her work of running a business empire. She was trying to build a brand, not her Facebook friend list. (Sadly, both women have faced the choice of irrelevancy or learning to adopt behavior more suited to The View. That's another topic for another blog.)
As much as I may fancy myself otherwise, a Hillary or Martha I am not. I’ve taken strides since my early twenties, back when I found it a talent to meld into any number of groups; however I still experience moments of wanting to be liked by all. This is not a reasonable or admirable goal. Despite being generally amiable, social, and up for a laugh, I have personality traits that prevent universal friendship, as does anyone with a hint of personality or self awareness. Yet appallingly I’ve realized that I have the nerve to become offended when someone I don’t even like doesn’t like me back. I know that popularity is a poor indicator of substance, as indicated by Nicholas Sparks’ eternal presence on the bestseller lists, but despite everything I know to be true, it sometimes bugs the crap out of me not to be liked.
When this gap emerges between who I claim to be and who I really can be, it’s an immediate indicator that I’ve fallen away from my center. That’s when I return to the Gospel of Didion (Joan Didion’s excellent essay, “On Self Respect”): “The dismal fact is that self-respect has nothing to do with the approval of others--who are, after all, deceived easily enough; has nothing to do with reputation, which, as Rhett Butler told Scarlett O’Hara, is something people with courage can do without… Character--the willingness to accept responsibility for one’s own life--is the source from which self-respect springs.”
So there it is. Placing value upon being liked is the cheap, knock-off version of respecting and liking oneself. The gap that appears in my psyche from time to time is merely an indicator that something is off elsewhere, and that something has everything to do with me and not with you. And although recognizing that the "official" versions of ourselves don't always match the real deal is not a fun exercise, it's a meaningful one nonetheless.
But I really am a nice person. Really.
Thursday, January 22, 2009
1-20-2009
1-20-2009.
This date has been a rallying cry for so many of us who have spent the last eight years as unwilling hostages in Bush country. The date was a promise of an end and, better yet, a promise of a beginning. I have to admit, though, that “1-20-2009!” became an empty phrase for me, akin to “Peace in the Mideast!” The concept sounded perfectly lovely, but it's nothing I ever really envisioned.
But then on Tuesday, it really was 1-20-2009.
I had gotten so used to hearing horrible news that anything seemed possible. If I woke up that morning to hear that Bush proclaimed himself Emperor-for-life and his first act was to arm children and tell them to hunt polar bears, I’d probably go about my day thinking, “Well, that sounds about right.” But no… millions of jubilant Americans filled DC. Obama was sworn in. Nobody blew anyone up. Bush flew home. Obama stayed. I felt like a kid whose parents just brought home a puppy: “You mean we can KEEP him???”
I cried quite a bit. It was a thawing of cynicism, a realization that hope isn’t foolish. As the leaders filed into the Capitol, I looked at the forlorn-looking Bush and the wheelchair-bound Cheney and felt sorry for them. I thought how awkward it must be to be so widely despised, to give eight years of your life for failure, to… NO! NO! NO! Reason slapped me in the face and reminded me that these are the men who defended torture, who spoke of global warming as a kooky conspiracy theory, who caused so much loss of life, nature, money, and morale. But for a moment, I was so touched by the day that I almost felt sorry for them. President Barack Obama made me drunk on hope.
Although I’ve cast a worried eye at Obama since the election, I’m starting to see things fit together. No, he will not be my liberal kick-ass president. He won’t flip righties the bird and save the world while wearing a biodegradable cape and NPR t-shirt. The dude’s going to compromise with people I don‘t like. I worry about the effectiveness about someone who compromises with so much at stake, but yet I see the genius in it when I hear hard-core Republicans giving him a chance and seeming to genuinely hope for his success. Obama just might be a great American statesman. I haven’t seen this during my lifetime, and I’m rather confused about it.
Or he might not be. He might fail, we might fall deeper into economic and international ruin, we might look back on this time as foolish and naive. Yet we really did have our 1-20-2009. I felt what it was like to listen to a president and feel proud, giddy, and hopeful, and I want to stay this way as long as possible. So here's to 1-20-2009 and beyond...
This date has been a rallying cry for so many of us who have spent the last eight years as unwilling hostages in Bush country. The date was a promise of an end and, better yet, a promise of a beginning. I have to admit, though, that “1-20-2009!” became an empty phrase for me, akin to “Peace in the Mideast!” The concept sounded perfectly lovely, but it's nothing I ever really envisioned.
But then on Tuesday, it really was 1-20-2009.
I had gotten so used to hearing horrible news that anything seemed possible. If I woke up that morning to hear that Bush proclaimed himself Emperor-for-life and his first act was to arm children and tell them to hunt polar bears, I’d probably go about my day thinking, “Well, that sounds about right.” But no… millions of jubilant Americans filled DC. Obama was sworn in. Nobody blew anyone up. Bush flew home. Obama stayed. I felt like a kid whose parents just brought home a puppy: “You mean we can KEEP him???”
I cried quite a bit. It was a thawing of cynicism, a realization that hope isn’t foolish. As the leaders filed into the Capitol, I looked at the forlorn-looking Bush and the wheelchair-bound Cheney and felt sorry for them. I thought how awkward it must be to be so widely despised, to give eight years of your life for failure, to… NO! NO! NO! Reason slapped me in the face and reminded me that these are the men who defended torture, who spoke of global warming as a kooky conspiracy theory, who caused so much loss of life, nature, money, and morale. But for a moment, I was so touched by the day that I almost felt sorry for them. President Barack Obama made me drunk on hope.
Although I’ve cast a worried eye at Obama since the election, I’m starting to see things fit together. No, he will not be my liberal kick-ass president. He won’t flip righties the bird and save the world while wearing a biodegradable cape and NPR t-shirt. The dude’s going to compromise with people I don‘t like. I worry about the effectiveness about someone who compromises with so much at stake, but yet I see the genius in it when I hear hard-core Republicans giving him a chance and seeming to genuinely hope for his success. Obama just might be a great American statesman. I haven’t seen this during my lifetime, and I’m rather confused about it.
Or he might not be. He might fail, we might fall deeper into economic and international ruin, we might look back on this time as foolish and naive. Yet we really did have our 1-20-2009. I felt what it was like to listen to a president and feel proud, giddy, and hopeful, and I want to stay this way as long as possible. So here's to 1-20-2009 and beyond...
Monday, January 05, 2009
Change I Want To Believe In
Now that Obama conquered the moderate and progressive vote, he seems to be making the odd choice of turning to those who went McCain’s way. He named Clinton to the Cabinet (yay!), but as Sec of State (huh?). Clinton’s biggest about-face came when she suddenly turned against her earlier strong support of a Palestinian state to the more politically savvy position of unflinching support of Israel. Naming a vehemently pro-Israel Sec of State right now seems like taking a note from the George W. Bush school of diplomacy.
And why, pray tell, is Obama wavering on his earlier pledge to reverse the Bush tax cuts on the wealthy before their 2011 deadline? I’m hardly Paul Krugman here, but it seems as though we’re in desperate need of extra funds in this country and this is an obvious way to raise cash. Despite the hand-wringing over redistribution of wealth, this country has grown quite comfy with redistributing the wealth to the already wealthy. Step up, Obama, and make the wealthy pay what they should have been paying over the past eight years.
Following a decisive national victory from voters who demanded big change seems an odd time for Obama to shift right. He needs to be the president we elected him to be: one who values diplomacy over fightin’ words, who returns to the middle- and lower-classes what is theirs. Perhaps he’s wavering, perhaps he’s managing expectations, or perhaps he’s putting unity over conviction. We can’t know yet. As I read Frank Rich’s editorial on President Bush yesterday, I felt guilty for finding fault with Obama. We’ve spent eight years with an administration that defends legalized torture and logging in national parks with a straight face, and I’m finding qualms in a tax strategy? Yet it’s time to take our old standards of decency from that high shelf and dust them off. That isn’t to say Obama will be the messiah some make him out to be. Expectations for a second coming of FDR are rampant, and that scares me. We shouldn’t want FDR, but many of us do want that guy who gave the acceptance speech in Grant Park last November.
So, Mr. President-Elect Obama, I’ll still be psyched to watch you sworn in on the 20th. I’m sure I’ll smile all day, and knowing me, probably cry a little as well. But along with the giant foam “Obama’s #1” finger I’ll raise will be a raised eyebrow, as I wait with healthy skepticism to see that promised change.
And why, pray tell, is Obama wavering on his earlier pledge to reverse the Bush tax cuts on the wealthy before their 2011 deadline? I’m hardly Paul Krugman here, but it seems as though we’re in desperate need of extra funds in this country and this is an obvious way to raise cash. Despite the hand-wringing over redistribution of wealth, this country has grown quite comfy with redistributing the wealth to the already wealthy. Step up, Obama, and make the wealthy pay what they should have been paying over the past eight years.
Following a decisive national victory from voters who demanded big change seems an odd time for Obama to shift right. He needs to be the president we elected him to be: one who values diplomacy over fightin’ words, who returns to the middle- and lower-classes what is theirs. Perhaps he’s wavering, perhaps he’s managing expectations, or perhaps he’s putting unity over conviction. We can’t know yet. As I read Frank Rich’s editorial on President Bush yesterday, I felt guilty for finding fault with Obama. We’ve spent eight years with an administration that defends legalized torture and logging in national parks with a straight face, and I’m finding qualms in a tax strategy? Yet it’s time to take our old standards of decency from that high shelf and dust them off. That isn’t to say Obama will be the messiah some make him out to be. Expectations for a second coming of FDR are rampant, and that scares me. We shouldn’t want FDR, but many of us do want that guy who gave the acceptance speech in Grant Park last November.
So, Mr. President-Elect Obama, I’ll still be psyched to watch you sworn in on the 20th. I’m sure I’ll smile all day, and knowing me, probably cry a little as well. But along with the giant foam “Obama’s #1” finger I’ll raise will be a raised eyebrow, as I wait with healthy skepticism to see that promised change.
Friday, October 10, 2008
Voting McCain? Read this first.
People who convince others to change their political views have all the effectiveness and likeability of those who aim for religious conversion. It’s clear that I’m voting for Obama, but I get that Obama is not for everyone. When people vote against Obama because they want us to continue our strategy in Iraq or because their income bracket means lower taxes with McCain, I can respect their vote while not sharing their views (or income bracket).
However, I cannot respect a vote based on misunderstanding. The following are reasons I’ve heard people voting against Obama and why I believe these to be largely a result of bad information and bias.
Reason 1: Obama will raise my taxes.
If you make under $112,000, you’ll pay less taxes under Obama than McCain. If you make over $161,000, you’ll pay more. Obama’s tax increases on the wealthy are actually a reversal of the Bush tax breaks set to expire in 2011, returning the tax code to its Reagan state. Because of the Bush cuts, America now has the widest gap between rich and poor since the Great Depression. If you support the Bush tax code, McCain is your candidate. (For a nonpartisan breakdown on how the proposals would affect you, click here.)
Reason 2: Obama lacks experience.
I concede this as the most valid criticism of the Obama candidacy. I don’t believe, however, that experience equals effectiveness. George W. Bush has had eight years of presidential experience; enough said. McCain has had an effective tenure in the Senate, but he’s shown himself to be a victim of his bad temper and one who rewards yes-men while shunning any who disagree. Such a man hasn’t served us well these past eight years. I’ll turn to conservative columnist George Will, who blew me away with this column:
“It is arguable that, because of his inexperience, Obama is not ready for the presidency. It is arguable that McCain, because of his boiling moralism and bottomless reservoir of certitudes, is not suited to the presidency. Unreadiness can be corrected, although perhaps at great cost, by experience. Can a dismaying temperament be fixed?” McCain Loses His Head, WaPo, 9/23/08
Reason 3: I’m a Republican/Libertarian. I favor small government.
I’m the wrong person to defend this, as I’m not a fan of minimizing government. I hear people calling universal healthcare socialistic and I recall that Medicare was opposed on the same grounds. I hear people calling for no taxes whatsoever, and I wonder who would pay for roads or public schools. So to break away from my bias, I’ll turn again to conservative George Will:
“The political left always aims to expand the permeation of economic life by politics. Today, the efficient means to that end is government control of capital. So, is not McCain's party now conducting the most leftist administration in American history? The New Deal never acted so precipitously on such a scale… Does McCain have qualms about this, or only quarrels?” McCain Loses His Head, WaPo, 9/23/08
Reason 4: I don't vote Democrat because I oppose abortion.
The next president will likely select a Supreme Court justice. With a Court that currently has four justices opposed to Roe v. Wade, this would spell doom to reproductive freedom in America. Please note: Supporting Roe v. Wade does not mean supporting abortion as quick-stop birth control. Almost all of us can agree that the goal is to minimize the need for abortion via sex education and affordable birth control, both of which are shunned by McCain and soon-to-be-grandma Palin. Obama has stated his commitment to age-appropriate sex education, prevention of unintended pregnancies, and access to legal and safe abortions for those who need them.
My criticism of many anti-choice voters is that their concern for human welfare largely ends when one leaves the womb. For those who oppose Obama because they respect life, I’d like to ask them:
• What about the lives of soldiers and Marines in Iraq who are dying for a war waged on very precarious grounds and still lacks an exit strategy? McCain wants to keep them fighting.
• What about the lives of the sick who are unable to obtain health insurance because they have a pre-existing condition? The McCain proposal does nothing to help them.
• What about the uninsureds who fill ERs with illnesses that could have been avoided with preventative care or been handled by a GP? There is a hidden tax on all of us when uninsureds turn to the ER for care, leaving the tab for taxpayers.
• What about prisoners in Guantanamo Bay who are denied legal representation by their American captors? Haven't we prided ourselves in how we treat our friends AND enemies?
Being "pro-life" should mean protecting and defending the lives and health of those around us.
Reason 5: But Obama’s black and will likely be assassinated.
Holy crap, I actually heard this one and nearly lost all faith in humanity. For people with this amount of reason and logic, I beg of them to stay home and not vote at all. Ugh.
However, I cannot respect a vote based on misunderstanding. The following are reasons I’ve heard people voting against Obama and why I believe these to be largely a result of bad information and bias.
Reason 1: Obama will raise my taxes.
If you make under $112,000, you’ll pay less taxes under Obama than McCain. If you make over $161,000, you’ll pay more. Obama’s tax increases on the wealthy are actually a reversal of the Bush tax breaks set to expire in 2011, returning the tax code to its Reagan state. Because of the Bush cuts, America now has the widest gap between rich and poor since the Great Depression. If you support the Bush tax code, McCain is your candidate. (For a nonpartisan breakdown on how the proposals would affect you, click here.)
Reason 2: Obama lacks experience.
I concede this as the most valid criticism of the Obama candidacy. I don’t believe, however, that experience equals effectiveness. George W. Bush has had eight years of presidential experience; enough said. McCain has had an effective tenure in the Senate, but he’s shown himself to be a victim of his bad temper and one who rewards yes-men while shunning any who disagree. Such a man hasn’t served us well these past eight years. I’ll turn to conservative columnist George Will, who blew me away with this column:
“It is arguable that, because of his inexperience, Obama is not ready for the presidency. It is arguable that McCain, because of his boiling moralism and bottomless reservoir of certitudes, is not suited to the presidency. Unreadiness can be corrected, although perhaps at great cost, by experience. Can a dismaying temperament be fixed?” McCain Loses His Head, WaPo, 9/23/08
Reason 3: I’m a Republican/Libertarian. I favor small government.
I’m the wrong person to defend this, as I’m not a fan of minimizing government. I hear people calling universal healthcare socialistic and I recall that Medicare was opposed on the same grounds. I hear people calling for no taxes whatsoever, and I wonder who would pay for roads or public schools. So to break away from my bias, I’ll turn again to conservative George Will:
“The political left always aims to expand the permeation of economic life by politics. Today, the efficient means to that end is government control of capital. So, is not McCain's party now conducting the most leftist administration in American history? The New Deal never acted so precipitously on such a scale… Does McCain have qualms about this, or only quarrels?” McCain Loses His Head, WaPo, 9/23/08
Reason 4: I don't vote Democrat because I oppose abortion.
The next president will likely select a Supreme Court justice. With a Court that currently has four justices opposed to Roe v. Wade, this would spell doom to reproductive freedom in America. Please note: Supporting Roe v. Wade does not mean supporting abortion as quick-stop birth control. Almost all of us can agree that the goal is to minimize the need for abortion via sex education and affordable birth control, both of which are shunned by McCain and soon-to-be-grandma Palin. Obama has stated his commitment to age-appropriate sex education, prevention of unintended pregnancies, and access to legal and safe abortions for those who need them.
My criticism of many anti-choice voters is that their concern for human welfare largely ends when one leaves the womb. For those who oppose Obama because they respect life, I’d like to ask them:
• What about the lives of soldiers and Marines in Iraq who are dying for a war waged on very precarious grounds and still lacks an exit strategy? McCain wants to keep them fighting.
• What about the lives of the sick who are unable to obtain health insurance because they have a pre-existing condition? The McCain proposal does nothing to help them.
• What about the uninsureds who fill ERs with illnesses that could have been avoided with preventative care or been handled by a GP? There is a hidden tax on all of us when uninsureds turn to the ER for care, leaving the tab for taxpayers.
• What about prisoners in Guantanamo Bay who are denied legal representation by their American captors? Haven't we prided ourselves in how we treat our friends AND enemies?
Being "pro-life" should mean protecting and defending the lives and health of those around us.
Reason 5: But Obama’s black and will likely be assassinated.
Holy crap, I actually heard this one and nearly lost all faith in humanity. For people with this amount of reason and logic, I beg of them to stay home and not vote at all. Ugh.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
On Palin and Feminism
The selection of Palin as Republican VP nominee pulled me in several directions. As a Democrat, I was thrilled. (An inexperienced Alaskan governor known for ethical reform who is currently under investigation in an illegal firing? Are you serious?) McCain’s pick of someone whom he proudly proclaimed as an unknown within the Beltway completely discredited his criticism of his opponent as inexperienced. The idea of a Biden-Palin debate gave me a maniacal laugh and a Mr. Burns-esque proclamation of, "Eeeeex-cellent."
But as a feminist, the selection of Palin left me angered and embarrassed. It didn’t anger me so much for her socially conservative views; although they are far from my own, they make sense for McCain’s running mate. The selection of Palin angered me because she is so ill-prepared for the job. This 44-year-old former beauty queen with a BS in journalism became a television sports reporter upon graduation. She began in the city council of Wasilla, a town of 6,000, and worked her way up to mayor, where she was two years ago. She’s now spent a year and a half as governor of Alaska. Good for her. A good start to a political career. But good enough to be president?
This unknown and largely untested woman with not a day of foreign policy experience would serve as VP under a man in his 70s with recurrent cancer. She'd be a heartbeat away from leading a country mired in economic recession and two wars (perhaps three or four, if McCain gets elected). McCain would rather pander for the female vote than to select someone who would effectively manage this country upon his death. It speaks volumes about his judgment.
And it speaks volumes about his views on women. He seems to believe that women will support a candidate not based upon record, but upon the ever-important issue of who has a hoo-hoo or a wee-wee. McCain seems to bank upon we Clinton supporters bailing Obama to support the new potential hoo-hoo in office -- never mind that her meager record stands in opposition to the core values Clinton represents. Having my rights taken away by a woman leaves me no more empowered.
Talking heads ponder how a Republican female nominee will affect the feminist vote. I’ll fill you in on a secret: we feminists don’t meet in secret weekly meetings to determine the choices we will make en masse. This will be largely made up of individual decisions across the country, and this is my own.
As a feminist, I’m embarrassed that the first Republican female name on the presidential ballot will be an utterly inexperienced candidate who was chosen for her gender, not her record.
As a feminist, I’ll stick with the candidate promoting universal healthcare, reproductive rights, equal pay, increased funding to education, and an end to the Iraq War – issues that impact women’s public and private roles.
As a feminist, the past few days have left me wanting to take a long nap.
But as a feminist, the selection of Palin left me angered and embarrassed. It didn’t anger me so much for her socially conservative views; although they are far from my own, they make sense for McCain’s running mate. The selection of Palin angered me because she is so ill-prepared for the job. This 44-year-old former beauty queen with a BS in journalism became a television sports reporter upon graduation. She began in the city council of Wasilla, a town of 6,000, and worked her way up to mayor, where she was two years ago. She’s now spent a year and a half as governor of Alaska. Good for her. A good start to a political career. But good enough to be president?
This unknown and largely untested woman with not a day of foreign policy experience would serve as VP under a man in his 70s with recurrent cancer. She'd be a heartbeat away from leading a country mired in economic recession and two wars (perhaps three or four, if McCain gets elected). McCain would rather pander for the female vote than to select someone who would effectively manage this country upon his death. It speaks volumes about his judgment.
And it speaks volumes about his views on women. He seems to believe that women will support a candidate not based upon record, but upon the ever-important issue of who has a hoo-hoo or a wee-wee. McCain seems to bank upon we Clinton supporters bailing Obama to support the new potential hoo-hoo in office -- never mind that her meager record stands in opposition to the core values Clinton represents. Having my rights taken away by a woman leaves me no more empowered.
Talking heads ponder how a Republican female nominee will affect the feminist vote. I’ll fill you in on a secret: we feminists don’t meet in secret weekly meetings to determine the choices we will make en masse. This will be largely made up of individual decisions across the country, and this is my own.
As a feminist, I’m embarrassed that the first Republican female name on the presidential ballot will be an utterly inexperienced candidate who was chosen for her gender, not her record.
As a feminist, I’ll stick with the candidate promoting universal healthcare, reproductive rights, equal pay, increased funding to education, and an end to the Iraq War – issues that impact women’s public and private roles.
As a feminist, the past few days have left me wanting to take a long nap.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
The Non-Traditional Student
As an undergrad, few things annoyed me more than sharing a class with a “non-traditional student.” I figured the term was a nice way of saying, “too old to be here,” which I supposed was kind, supposing non-traditional students were probably sensitive to other concerns, like their crows’ feet, trick knees, and impending deaths. Nontraditional students usually popped up in evening courses, and if you didn’t spot them by their old person smell, you could identify them by the way they inhabited the front row and kept their hands raised. They were obnoxious, annoying. They were those students who would ask an in-depth question five minutes before class would end. We traditional students would stare daggers into their gray little heads during the four extra minutes we were detained in class. The only reason we took once-a-week evening classes was to make the rest of our weeks easier, not to actually learn at night.
Fast forward ten years, and the predictable occurred. It began easily enough as I discussed my course of study with my grad school advisor. She said that my time in school wasn’t very long considering I was (wait for it…) a non-traditional student. Ho-leeeee crap. Me??? Until then, I convinced myself that I fit right in, that a 31-year-old full-time working professional blended right in with the 23-year-olds who have never written a resume and still live with Mom. Yet it became so horribly clear that I had “non-traditional student” written all over me: I’m an overeager student who sits towards the front of the class and who is no stranger to the end-of-class question.
I’ve since realized that the difference between traditional students and nontraditional students is largely a matter of math. While traditional students may deal with student loans, those are checks that magically appear with no concept of how hard one must work to repay them. We nontraditional students, however, have done our share of work and can do the math. I can name countless other ways I could spend the $20,000 I’m forking over for this degree. I’ve calculated that each night’s class costs approximately $90 and how much I have to work at a job I don’t enjoy in order to earn the privilege to attend each one. Younger students ask before class if I’ve finished the reading; you’re damn right I have. And if I have a question to ask at 9:14 p.m., you’re going to hear it.
I’ve begun to detest traditional students with the same ire that I once reserved for the nontraditional ones. They whine about having no time to write papers, but then say things like, “Oh my god, do you watch Rock of Love? I’m, like, obsessed with that show.” I haven’t had the time or opportunity to be, like, obsessed with any show during the past few years. I don’t know what Rock of Love is, who’s in it, or what channel it’s on. Young students bemoan all-nighters and how they, “seriously, have NO time at all,” but then discuss Grey’s Anatomy with more insight than they use to discuss assigned books in class.
And I know I sound like someone’s grumpy old Depression-era grandparent, bemoaning the cost of bread and decrying the state of kids today. But perhaps we’ve judged those cantankerous old souls too quickly. For if I’ve learned anything over the past two years, it’s that those whom we judge might very well be those whom we become. Ten years from now, I just might be standing on my front step, hoisting a rake and yelling at kids to get off my lawn. Ten years after that, I’ll likely have a drawer full of wrapping paper I’ve carefully saved after each holiday. Because if I can become an ornery old non-traditional student, anything is possible.
Fast forward ten years, and the predictable occurred. It began easily enough as I discussed my course of study with my grad school advisor. She said that my time in school wasn’t very long considering I was (wait for it…) a non-traditional student. Ho-leeeee crap. Me??? Until then, I convinced myself that I fit right in, that a 31-year-old full-time working professional blended right in with the 23-year-olds who have never written a resume and still live with Mom. Yet it became so horribly clear that I had “non-traditional student” written all over me: I’m an overeager student who sits towards the front of the class and who is no stranger to the end-of-class question.
I’ve since realized that the difference between traditional students and nontraditional students is largely a matter of math. While traditional students may deal with student loans, those are checks that magically appear with no concept of how hard one must work to repay them. We nontraditional students, however, have done our share of work and can do the math. I can name countless other ways I could spend the $20,000 I’m forking over for this degree. I’ve calculated that each night’s class costs approximately $90 and how much I have to work at a job I don’t enjoy in order to earn the privilege to attend each one. Younger students ask before class if I’ve finished the reading; you’re damn right I have. And if I have a question to ask at 9:14 p.m., you’re going to hear it.
I’ve begun to detest traditional students with the same ire that I once reserved for the nontraditional ones. They whine about having no time to write papers, but then say things like, “Oh my god, do you watch Rock of Love? I’m, like, obsessed with that show.” I haven’t had the time or opportunity to be, like, obsessed with any show during the past few years. I don’t know what Rock of Love is, who’s in it, or what channel it’s on. Young students bemoan all-nighters and how they, “seriously, have NO time at all,” but then discuss Grey’s Anatomy with more insight than they use to discuss assigned books in class.
And I know I sound like someone’s grumpy old Depression-era grandparent, bemoaning the cost of bread and decrying the state of kids today. But perhaps we’ve judged those cantankerous old souls too quickly. For if I’ve learned anything over the past two years, it’s that those whom we judge might very well be those whom we become. Ten years from now, I just might be standing on my front step, hoisting a rake and yelling at kids to get off my lawn. Ten years after that, I’ll likely have a drawer full of wrapping paper I’ve carefully saved after each holiday. Because if I can become an ornery old non-traditional student, anything is possible.
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
Passport? Check. Money for outrageous airfares? No check.
Another video. Another realization that I need to get my butt to more places.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
If It's Sunday, It's Meet the Press.
Around my office, Monday morning means several things. It means wasting time writing status reports. It means pretending to review new numbers that were crunched from the week before. And it also means the after-action report that my boss and I share over the previous day’s Meet the Press.
Although Meet the Press is watched by a good deal of the DC area, I only know my boss and I to be the non-politicos who have a near-obsession with the show. We’re one step away from becoming Meet the Press groupies. My coworkers referred to Tim Russert as my boyfriend, bemused over how the joking would make me giggle and blush. Many Monday mornings, my boss would call and we’d passionately discuss that week’s show and guests.
The call she made last Friday afternoon was much different. The phone rang shortly before 4, just when I learned of Tim Russert’s death. “Are you seeing this?” she asked. “Ugh. This sucks. Bad,” I said, losing any shred of professional demeanor. We sat at our respective computers, staring at our CNN Breaking News banners, willing them to change. It’s not often that a stranger’s death can make such a personal impact.
I met Tim Russert at a book signing in 2004. I think I scared him. Suffice it to say, he was unaccustomed to such enthusiasm on his book tour. During the reading, I grinned like Charlie Brown in the presence of the little red-haired girl and cherished my front row-center seat as if I were at a Stones concert. When Tim Russert signed my book, I gushed about how much I admired him and enjoyed his program.
He was very gracious. I then asked him if he wouldn’t mind if I got a picture with him. His gratitude soon turned to wariness, and I realized that I just weirded out my news crush. But we got our picture, me and my kinda freaked-out hero. I brought it into work the next day. My boss taped it to her door.
When I see the tributes being paid to Tim Russert, I get all the more angry that he died. He was a good one. We needed him. The style he gave to Meet the Press was more productive, civilized, and thorough than almost any other news show on television. Plus, he just seemed so damn nice. But the coverage is taking a turn that appalls me. What bothers me about the recent coverage of his death is the interrogation into matters of his health. His doctor has been on television all day, defending Russert as a “model patient” and insisting he enjoyed cycling. I hate that. It seems like whenever someone dies, we look for ways to prove to ourselves it won’t happen to us. If someone dies in a car crash, we want to know that they weren’t wearing a seat belt or that they were drunk. If someone dies of lung cancer, we need to know they smoked. The questions only seem to show that in a time of tragedy, we seek reassurance regarding our own survival. How horribly egotistical. We want death to make sense in a way that will allow us to use our wits to escape it. So when Tim Russert died of a heart attack, the questions quickly began: Did he watch what he ate? Did he exercise? Did he listen to his doctor? We seek explanations, reasons, causality. When death really comes down to a matter of this: someone is no longer with us; it’s sad.
And in this case, we lost Tim Russert. And it sucks. Bad.
Although Meet the Press is watched by a good deal of the DC area, I only know my boss and I to be the non-politicos who have a near-obsession with the show. We’re one step away from becoming Meet the Press groupies. My coworkers referred to Tim Russert as my boyfriend, bemused over how the joking would make me giggle and blush. Many Monday mornings, my boss would call and we’d passionately discuss that week’s show and guests.
The call she made last Friday afternoon was much different. The phone rang shortly before 4, just when I learned of Tim Russert’s death. “Are you seeing this?” she asked. “Ugh. This sucks. Bad,” I said, losing any shred of professional demeanor. We sat at our respective computers, staring at our CNN Breaking News banners, willing them to change. It’s not often that a stranger’s death can make such a personal impact.
I met Tim Russert at a book signing in 2004. I think I scared him. Suffice it to say, he was unaccustomed to such enthusiasm on his book tour. During the reading, I grinned like Charlie Brown in the presence of the little red-haired girl and cherished my front row-center seat as if I were at a Stones concert. When Tim Russert signed my book, I gushed about how much I admired him and enjoyed his program.
He was very gracious. I then asked him if he wouldn’t mind if I got a picture with him. His gratitude soon turned to wariness, and I realized that I just weirded out my news crush. But we got our picture, me and my kinda freaked-out hero. I brought it into work the next day. My boss taped it to her door.When I see the tributes being paid to Tim Russert, I get all the more angry that he died. He was a good one. We needed him. The style he gave to Meet the Press was more productive, civilized, and thorough than almost any other news show on television. Plus, he just seemed so damn nice. But the coverage is taking a turn that appalls me. What bothers me about the recent coverage of his death is the interrogation into matters of his health. His doctor has been on television all day, defending Russert as a “model patient” and insisting he enjoyed cycling. I hate that. It seems like whenever someone dies, we look for ways to prove to ourselves it won’t happen to us. If someone dies in a car crash, we want to know that they weren’t wearing a seat belt or that they were drunk. If someone dies of lung cancer, we need to know they smoked. The questions only seem to show that in a time of tragedy, we seek reassurance regarding our own survival. How horribly egotistical. We want death to make sense in a way that will allow us to use our wits to escape it. So when Tim Russert died of a heart attack, the questions quickly began: Did he watch what he ate? Did he exercise? Did he listen to his doctor? We seek explanations, reasons, causality. When death really comes down to a matter of this: someone is no longer with us; it’s sad.
And in this case, we lost Tim Russert. And it sucks. Bad.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Mr. James and Me
When I’m feeling masochistic, I’ll start something that is likely beyond my desire to complete, but will force me to finish once I begin. Once I made my mom a quilt for Christmas, having never quilted before and thinking that two weeks would offer sufficient time; another time I told Jimmy, “Let’s do it!” when he proposed we hike Croagh Patrick in Ireland (those who know of my horrible fear of heights will know the following hours were pee-in-my-pants terrifying); and when I was asked for a topic for an independent study course last semester, I suggested Henry James.
How adorably naïve I was then.
I love Henry, I do. But in retrospect, I realize what he and I shared over those four months was a dysfunctional relationship: I spent hour upon hour with him, waiting for something to happen, for a plot to emerge, and then nothing. But he’d write something pretty —I’m talking a gorgeous sentence—and I was putty in his hands again. It became routine: I’d wait for action, he’d string me along with pretty words, and then I’d start another book for the same treatment. While I was reading, Jimmy would innocently ask what the book was about, and I’d snap, “NOTHING! It’s about NOTHING! I don’t know what the plot of this damn book is and I’m on page 500!” But once I’d finish, I’d get it. I’d get that the books weren’t about what happened, but about how humans interact with life, with others, with themselves. I’d look back upon the book fondly, with the rosiest of glasses, and look forward to reading it again. If I didn’t love Henry James so much, I’d hate him. A lot.
One cannot skim Henry James or breeze through his books whilst sipping lattes with friends in a coffeeshop. While he may spend pages upon pages describing the expression on someone’s face, he will kill off a major character in a dependent clause, mid-paragraph. I would read each novel in absolute silence and solitude with a steady caffeine intake, forcing myself not to blink. But he rewards you greatly for this attention: once every few pages or so would be a string of words so pretty that I’d have to read them several times to fully savor them before moving on.
So the result of my masochism is this: Each Christmas, there lies a quilt in my mom’s house that I cannot look at without suffering post-traumatic stress disorder as I recall fourteen days of quilting hell. Laying beside my desk is a walking stick from my hike in Ireland, the memory of which is both endearing and empowering. And overtaking one shelf in my bookcase are thirteen books by Henry James, who—after so much intimacy between us—now seems like my literary husband. And although my temper flares with him, I’ll continue to settle into my chaise from time to time with Henry. And a strong cup of coffee.
How adorably naïve I was then.
I love Henry, I do. But in retrospect, I realize what he and I shared over those four months was a dysfunctional relationship: I spent hour upon hour with him, waiting for something to happen, for a plot to emerge, and then nothing. But he’d write something pretty —I’m talking a gorgeous sentence—and I was putty in his hands again. It became routine: I’d wait for action, he’d string me along with pretty words, and then I’d start another book for the same treatment. While I was reading, Jimmy would innocently ask what the book was about, and I’d snap, “NOTHING! It’s about NOTHING! I don’t know what the plot of this damn book is and I’m on page 500!” But once I’d finish, I’d get it. I’d get that the books weren’t about what happened, but about how humans interact with life, with others, with themselves. I’d look back upon the book fondly, with the rosiest of glasses, and look forward to reading it again. If I didn’t love Henry James so much, I’d hate him. A lot.
One cannot skim Henry James or breeze through his books whilst sipping lattes with friends in a coffeeshop. While he may spend pages upon pages describing the expression on someone’s face, he will kill off a major character in a dependent clause, mid-paragraph. I would read each novel in absolute silence and solitude with a steady caffeine intake, forcing myself not to blink. But he rewards you greatly for this attention: once every few pages or so would be a string of words so pretty that I’d have to read them several times to fully savor them before moving on.
So the result of my masochism is this: Each Christmas, there lies a quilt in my mom’s house that I cannot look at without suffering post-traumatic stress disorder as I recall fourteen days of quilting hell. Laying beside my desk is a walking stick from my hike in Ireland, the memory of which is both endearing and empowering. And overtaking one shelf in my bookcase are thirteen books by Henry James, who—after so much intimacy between us—now seems like my literary husband. And although my temper flares with him, I’ll continue to settle into my chaise from time to time with Henry. And a strong cup of coffee.
| The quilt (as almost done) | The hike |
 |  |
The semester |
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