Last night on KCET was a showing of "South Pacific", live from Lincoln Center. Aside from being a terrific show, this was especially significant because I actually know--or rather, knew--one of the cast members. Eric Anderson and I sang and performed together way back when my mom ran her children's chorale, and now there he is, mugging it up as...Stew Pot? Two Pots? Not sure, have to watch more closely...but wow, what an amazing thing, to see someone I grew up with, living out his dream on Broadway. He's so, so good.
So that's why I tuned in (and why it's recorded on my DVR), and I still haven't watched the whole thing, just bits and pieces. But I saw enough to remind myself of some of the subject matter, and to be surprised all over again at the honest portrayal of racism, particularly coming from that era...it just always takes me by surprise, and makes me wonder how shocking and provocative that was when it first opened, because I guess I have this notion that it just wasn't talked about, or at least certainly wasn't present in mainstream culture. Clearly, a mistaken assumption, at least to some extent.
So the song that stuck in my head was "You've Got to Be Carefully Taught"...it just kept spinning around and around in my brain as I was getting ready for bed, and I was idly musing about my grandparents, particularly my deceased grandfather, the opera singer, the musical theater man, the pretty darn bigoted guy, and wondering...did he ever sing that song? What did that mean to him? Did he know he was a bigot? Did it make him challenge that mindset, or was that just the way it was? I'll never know.
But then I suddenly remembered a disturbing incident I'd witnessed that very day--how it slipped my mind, I have no clue. I had pulled into an Albertson's parking lot with the kids--not a store I usually go to, but I was looking for something particular. As I parked, I noticed a group of three people--two men and a woman--in the next aisle, talking together next to an SUV. I don't even know why I took note, except that the woman had her head covered, and that drew my eye, and so I guess I made an automatic judgment of "Muslim", even though, head covering aside, nothing about her or either of her companions shouted any particular kind of thing other than "regular person". It looked like one man was showing the other two a piece of paper that seemed to have a picture on it, and the look on the woman's face was attentive and inquisitive. The other man wore sunglasses, so I couldn't read his expression.
The kids and I were getting ready to get out of the car, and as I opened my door I heard a raised voice, and glanced up to see the paper-bearing gentleman gesticulating and sounding angry, although I couldn't hear the words. I sat for a moment, wondering what was going on, as the woman's companion made some comment, finger raised--my take was censure of some sort. Here the angry man got even louder, shook his paper, and yelled, "I'm not the one who cut this woman's nose off, and put her picture on Time magazine!" He started to walk away, and then turned to deliver one last zinger: "There is only one Islam, and it's EVIL!" Then he turned and stalked into the store.
I sat there staring after him, holding my children back, wondering if I wanted to even go into the same store that this man had entered, to expose them to that level of hatred, and belatedly wanting to see if the other couple were all right, but they had already gotten in their car and driven away. I was awash with so many emotions: alarm, confusion, embarrassment for the way this man represented...I don't know what...America? Christians? White people? I don't know who he thought he was representing, I just didn't want it to be me.
And I could not stop thinking about how that whole exchange might have occurred, even though I had very little data to put together a hypothesis. But why was he carrying that picture? Why was he so prepared for a confrontation? Did he leave the house intending to find one? Was it some sort of evangelical campaign, to show Muslims the error of their faith? Or was he targeting Muslim Americans, holding individuals accountable for the actions of Muslims around the world? I'm certain that he thought he was on the right side...and maybe his intentions weren't all that misplaced, maybe he is truly moved to horror by the plight of women in the Muslim world, a position I applaud...but his methods...
And here was an uncomfortable thought...how did he know what faith that couple held, unless he, like me, made a snap judgment based on the woman's head cloth? What did that mean about me? And even the fact that I wanted to go apologize to those people, did that mean that I felt I was automatically in the crazy man's camp, abhorrent as I found him, and needed to apologize for my compatriot's actions, which meant that those people were...other? Or maybe I just wanted to distance myself from him, to say to them, "we're not all like that", except that that's still an "us & them" statement, isn't it? How do I escape that? How do I keep from passing that to my children?
And now here's that song again, "You've got to be taught to hate and fear" going round and round my head...
Weird how events can converge, sometimes.
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
My daughter is missing the point.
"Penalty boxes" (aka time-outs) are supposed to be dreaded episodes of consequential discipline for serious transgressions, such as, just as a for instance, throwing a Wow Wow Wubbzy hand-held video game squarely at your brother's head. The appropriate attitude should be dismay at having gotten oneself into this situation, contrition for the act, and a resolve not to do it again. At least for the next half hour. Apparently it's not working out that way.
Hallie's penalty box is a booster seat strapped to a folding chair, placed in the living room (where it clashes horribly with the surrounding decor) because it's the only place boring enough to (hopefully) engender the proper spirit of reflection and apology. Eli wandered downstairs this evening and happened to see her sitting in it (after the video game incident), and, because conversation or vocalizations of any kind are strictly prohibited while in penalty box, he quickly averted his eyes so as not to engage her--but not before she gave him a saucy wink, grabbed the dangling, unused safety strap, and buckled herself in.
A minute or so later, the timer went off, signaling the end of the allotted time, and Eli came back around the corner to tell her she could get up now--the next step being apologizing to her brother for braining him. She refused.
"I can't, Daddy. I'm still in the air."
Apparently she had just come from a lavish ball, and was jetting home--Princess Airline, no doubt--and could not possibly get out of her chair, because the seat belt light was not on, and she could clearly see the ground far, far below, so it just wouldn't be safe to wander around the aircraft before it landed.
Sigh.
I think we need a new disciplinary tool.
"Penalty boxes" (aka time-outs) are supposed to be dreaded episodes of consequential discipline for serious transgressions, such as, just as a for instance, throwing a Wow Wow Wubbzy hand-held video game squarely at your brother's head. The appropriate attitude should be dismay at having gotten oneself into this situation, contrition for the act, and a resolve not to do it again. At least for the next half hour. Apparently it's not working out that way.
Hallie's penalty box is a booster seat strapped to a folding chair, placed in the living room (where it clashes horribly with the surrounding decor) because it's the only place boring enough to (hopefully) engender the proper spirit of reflection and apology. Eli wandered downstairs this evening and happened to see her sitting in it (after the video game incident), and, because conversation or vocalizations of any kind are strictly prohibited while in penalty box, he quickly averted his eyes so as not to engage her--but not before she gave him a saucy wink, grabbed the dangling, unused safety strap, and buckled herself in.
A minute or so later, the timer went off, signaling the end of the allotted time, and Eli came back around the corner to tell her she could get up now--the next step being apologizing to her brother for braining him. She refused.
"I can't, Daddy. I'm still in the air."
Apparently she had just come from a lavish ball, and was jetting home--Princess Airline, no doubt--and could not possibly get out of her chair, because the seat belt light was not on, and she could clearly see the ground far, far below, so it just wouldn't be safe to wander around the aircraft before it landed.
Sigh.
I think we need a new disciplinary tool.
Monday, July 26, 2010
My Boy
Sometimes Colin just sends me reeling...the heart on this kid...
He spent the day with my mom (again), to give me just one more day to get my stamina back before I have to face the two-kid-dynamic on my own. They had spent quite a bit of time at Target (man, I love that store) and he came in with his serious face on, and a wad of tissue in his hand. As he started to hand it to me, Mom suggested I sit down, that this was "that kind of present." Even that heads-up did not even begin to prepare me.
Nestled inside the Kleenex was a large, trendy heart necklace, hung on a cord with minimal metal (since I get massive rashes for even looking at cheap jewelry too long, let alone wearing it on my skin). It's bold, burgundy, and rather lovely, but Mom tells me turn it over. Engraved on the back is the phrase "Hold on to your dreams." Very sweet...and then I realize it's a locket. I open it up, and there's a tightly folded yellow Post-It inside--which neither Colin nor Mom will let me look at yet...clearly a slow build here! So I look at the locket, and inside is another engraved message: "Fortune favors the brave."
Mom tells me that this is what sealed the deal for Colin (the fact that it closed with a magnet helped, too), because he looked up at her--you can't even imagine the earnestness of those eyes, framed by those impossibly long eyelashes--and said, "My Mommy had surgery, that's really brave!"
Now, having been properly primed, I was allowed to open the Post-It, which I began to read out loud, and then suddenly couldn't. Oh, my boy, my boy...he dictated to Mom (the Post-It was all she could find in the car to write on), and this is what he wanted to tell me, in his own words:
You have gentle courage, Mama.
You are getting so strong.
This is my heart for you.
Love, Colin
He spent the day with my mom (again), to give me just one more day to get my stamina back before I have to face the two-kid-dynamic on my own. They had spent quite a bit of time at Target (man, I love that store) and he came in with his serious face on, and a wad of tissue in his hand. As he started to hand it to me, Mom suggested I sit down, that this was "that kind of present." Even that heads-up did not even begin to prepare me.
Nestled inside the Kleenex was a large, trendy heart necklace, hung on a cord with minimal metal (since I get massive rashes for even looking at cheap jewelry too long, let alone wearing it on my skin). It's bold, burgundy, and rather lovely, but Mom tells me turn it over. Engraved on the back is the phrase "Hold on to your dreams." Very sweet...and then I realize it's a locket. I open it up, and there's a tightly folded yellow Post-It inside--which neither Colin nor Mom will let me look at yet...clearly a slow build here! So I look at the locket, and inside is another engraved message: "Fortune favors the brave."
Mom tells me that this is what sealed the deal for Colin (the fact that it closed with a magnet helped, too), because he looked up at her--you can't even imagine the earnestness of those eyes, framed by those impossibly long eyelashes--and said, "My Mommy had surgery, that's really brave!"
Now, having been properly primed, I was allowed to open the Post-It, which I began to read out loud, and then suddenly couldn't. Oh, my boy, my boy...he dictated to Mom (the Post-It was all she could find in the car to write on), and this is what he wanted to tell me, in his own words:
You have gentle courage, Mama.
You are getting so strong.
This is my heart for you.
Love, Colin
Eavesdropping
Conversation overheard between two children: Hallie (age 3) washing her face, Colin (age 5) on the toilet (!!), transcribed by Mommy to the best of her ability.
Colin: Salt is sand. Salt is the same as sand. That's why when you're at the beach you're in the salty water and you're all sandy. And you have to get the sand out of the water. That's why God made fish.
Hallie: Ohhhhh. That's why.
Colin: You know what the first fish was? A dinosaur.
Hallie: What?? That's amAZing!!
Colin: Yes, a dinosaur. But then they all died, and then God made houses for people to live in.
Hallie: That's amAZing!! And that's why when I go to heaven, I'm going to see God!
Colin: Right. Unless he's dead.
Hallie: God's going to die? He might die??
Colin: Right. In Heaven. That's where all the spirits go.
Hallie: Yes!! That's amAZing!!
Colin: Stop saying that. (loud groan) I may have to stop telling you all this...
Later....
Hallie: Mommy, I love you. Are you going to die? Are you going to try not to? Are you going to keep your brain inside you? That's good. Night-night!
Colin: Salt is sand. Salt is the same as sand. That's why when you're at the beach you're in the salty water and you're all sandy. And you have to get the sand out of the water. That's why God made fish.
Hallie: Ohhhhh. That's why.
Colin: You know what the first fish was? A dinosaur.
Hallie: What?? That's amAZing!!
Colin: Yes, a dinosaur. But then they all died, and then God made houses for people to live in.
Hallie: That's amAZing!! And that's why when I go to heaven, I'm going to see God!
Colin: Right. Unless he's dead.
Hallie: God's going to die? He might die??
Colin: Right. In Heaven. That's where all the spirits go.
Hallie: Yes!! That's amAZing!!
Colin: Stop saying that. (loud groan) I may have to stop telling you all this...
Later....
Hallie: Mommy, I love you. Are you going to die? Are you going to try not to? Are you going to keep your brain inside you? That's good. Night-night!
Sunday, July 25, 2010
Conversations with Hallie
Yesterday Hallie hurls herself into my arms after her nap (moderately painful...gentle with Mommy, please!), and we have a little hugfest for a few moments.
Hallie: "I love you."
Me: "I love you too, sweetheart."
Hallie, pulling away to look up at me: "You love me?"
Me, surprised: "Well, yes!"
Hallie: "Do you not want me to diiieeee?" (characteristically drawing out the word)
Me: "No!!"
Hallie, very sincerely: "All right. I'll try not to."
Hallie: "I love you."
Me: "I love you too, sweetheart."
Hallie, pulling away to look up at me: "You love me?"
Me, surprised: "Well, yes!"
Hallie: "Do you not want me to diiieeee?" (characteristically drawing out the word)
Me: "No!!"
Hallie, very sincerely: "All right. I'll try not to."
Friday, July 23, 2010
Battle Scars
The kids like to look at my battle-scarred torso. Now, I don't know what lasting scarring this is inflicting on their little psyches, but since we're trying to be as open about it as we think they can handle without being stricken by terror, I let them, occasionally. But I like to look at it also. Not pretty at all, mind you. I look like I was shanked in some very exciting, probably gang-related prison fight, by a very inept attacker who missed all things major. But I'm sorta fascinated with it, startling and colorful as it is...and mostly wondering two things: what the hell is going on in there, and did I really ask for this, like, voluntarily? Right now, in my liquid Vicodin-aided haze (yes, it comes in liquid form, improbably termed an elixir, or at least you think so until you receive its pain-abating blessing. Elixir, indeed. 'Fess up. You're a little jealous right now.)--anyway, with Vicodin standing in for blood, this seems like an awfully drastic step I just took, and one with immediate consequences I just did not see coming.
I think I'm really glad I have no clue what I looked like right after surgery in the ICU. Only my mother, my spouse, and my nurses saw that, and they can all be silenced. I did hear small snippets of "yellow" and "puffy" that kind of put me off asking for a mirror...and then the next day, when I was moved to a room WITH a mirror, they all told me how much better I looked...and I saw what I looked like then...um, scary, no thanks, I'll destroy your cameras if anyone tried to capture the before, I mean it, I will hunt you down. I ain't playin. So that wasn't a scenario I had played out in mind ahead of time.
I really don't have a good idea about how things have been changed around in there, despite the many videos I watched, and lectures I was forced to listen to...I know this got disconnected from that, and reconnected to this thing up here. That's the sum total of my practical knowledge. But I kinda want just a sneak peek, without seeing anything that would make me lose my (very tiny) lunch.
And then, the pain, which is inseparable from the gas. See, during surgery they like to pump gas into you to help move things around in there, and then sew you up and leave it there! Apparently the theory is your body will absorb it and know what to do with it (which explains being repeatedly asked about your hi-jinks in that arena until it stops being embarrassing and just gets boring). This perhaps also explains the "puffy". Did you know you could have gas pain in your neck? Shooting up into your ear canals? "I'm sorry, I can't hear you, I have gas in my ear." What fun we can have with our innards, if only we apply ourselves! These were not facts I ever came across, or ever considered needing to have access to. For those of you who may experience this one day, at least someone told you! And that still doesn't really talk about the pain...which I really don't want to talk about. It's there, it's pain-full, don't wanna focus on it. I have my good friend Vicodin.
Then there's the fist that seems to have popped into being deep in my left side. That's what it feels like, that somebody got a handful of my soft & squishies and is using that handful to relieve stress. Good for you. I'd like my soft parts back now.
The really comforting thing is, this is all "normal". So evidently I somehow could have found out about each and every one of them, and been prepared. Failed as a fact checker! Woulda been good info to have!
Hiccups hurt. That I find childishly cruel.
And I did it all to myself, on purpose, with a goal in mind, with a doctor's blessing (several, actually), me, me, no one else but me did this.
Hence my fascination with the train wreck on my torso--no midriff baring tops in my future, that's for damn sure!
Must look for positives: I no longer drift off, or suddenly find that I'm awake but the lights are out, because my eyes have taken a coffee break, right in the middle of a conversation. This was useful if I was trying to convey to the speaker a) boredom with the topic; or b) pity for me at my obvious fragility. Not useful for actually trying to, you know, talk. Or being so bored I finally opted for an edited-for-content movie in my room that I actually wanted to see, only to find that I can listen, but not watch, at least until I truly fall asleep and dream I'm happily married to David Spade (even in the dream, my dream self was fairly puzzled by this choice, but committed to the role like a pro). And he wasn't even IN the movie! Analyze THAT! So...no longer have to deal with that.
The weird abrupt power-downs occur less often, and less imperatively--I described it to my aunt as having an off-switch that someone else was messing around with. So I only have to get horizontal--fast, mind you--for maybe 20 minutes, not 82.
I've lost twelve pounds, which is skewed and weird and I know won't last, but hey, that's sure a pretty little silver lining you've got there!
Big positive, actually got out of the house today with Mom's help, and got my toes all prettified, and my heels sanded down. So from toe to ankle, you can't even tell I'm just days out of the hospital--unless you wonder at the dragging, halting pace, and the slow, majestic paths that lead from one cushioned object to another. Hallie got hers done too, with the same color as mine, and the same white flower on the big toe. She was so excited, she was nearly catatonic. Couldn't move, speak, smile, nothing...until we told her not to move. Rookie mistake, we know better. It was all kind of hilarious, and great to get out of the house, even if I was a menace on the road afterward because I kept shaking myself awake--remember the power-down things? Awkward when you're driving.
So...summing up time...it's all getting better, and I'm sure I'll remember at some point that there was a really good reason I did this, I just have to stop hurting to find it again. I think I left it under the Vicodin.
I think I'm really glad I have no clue what I looked like right after surgery in the ICU. Only my mother, my spouse, and my nurses saw that, and they can all be silenced. I did hear small snippets of "yellow" and "puffy" that kind of put me off asking for a mirror...and then the next day, when I was moved to a room WITH a mirror, they all told me how much better I looked...and I saw what I looked like then...um, scary, no thanks, I'll destroy your cameras if anyone tried to capture the before, I mean it, I will hunt you down. I ain't playin. So that wasn't a scenario I had played out in mind ahead of time.
I really don't have a good idea about how things have been changed around in there, despite the many videos I watched, and lectures I was forced to listen to...I know this got disconnected from that, and reconnected to this thing up here. That's the sum total of my practical knowledge. But I kinda want just a sneak peek, without seeing anything that would make me lose my (very tiny) lunch.
And then, the pain, which is inseparable from the gas. See, during surgery they like to pump gas into you to help move things around in there, and then sew you up and leave it there! Apparently the theory is your body will absorb it and know what to do with it (which explains being repeatedly asked about your hi-jinks in that arena until it stops being embarrassing and just gets boring). This perhaps also explains the "puffy". Did you know you could have gas pain in your neck? Shooting up into your ear canals? "I'm sorry, I can't hear you, I have gas in my ear." What fun we can have with our innards, if only we apply ourselves! These were not facts I ever came across, or ever considered needing to have access to. For those of you who may experience this one day, at least someone told you! And that still doesn't really talk about the pain...which I really don't want to talk about. It's there, it's pain-full, don't wanna focus on it. I have my good friend Vicodin.
Then there's the fist that seems to have popped into being deep in my left side. That's what it feels like, that somebody got a handful of my soft & squishies and is using that handful to relieve stress. Good for you. I'd like my soft parts back now.
The really comforting thing is, this is all "normal". So evidently I somehow could have found out about each and every one of them, and been prepared. Failed as a fact checker! Woulda been good info to have!
Hiccups hurt. That I find childishly cruel.
And I did it all to myself, on purpose, with a goal in mind, with a doctor's blessing (several, actually), me, me, no one else but me did this.
Hence my fascination with the train wreck on my torso--no midriff baring tops in my future, that's for damn sure!
Must look for positives: I no longer drift off, or suddenly find that I'm awake but the lights are out, because my eyes have taken a coffee break, right in the middle of a conversation. This was useful if I was trying to convey to the speaker a) boredom with the topic; or b) pity for me at my obvious fragility. Not useful for actually trying to, you know, talk. Or being so bored I finally opted for an edited-for-content movie in my room that I actually wanted to see, only to find that I can listen, but not watch, at least until I truly fall asleep and dream I'm happily married to David Spade (even in the dream, my dream self was fairly puzzled by this choice, but committed to the role like a pro). And he wasn't even IN the movie! Analyze THAT! So...no longer have to deal with that.
The weird abrupt power-downs occur less often, and less imperatively--I described it to my aunt as having an off-switch that someone else was messing around with. So I only have to get horizontal--fast, mind you--for maybe 20 minutes, not 82.
I've lost twelve pounds, which is skewed and weird and I know won't last, but hey, that's sure a pretty little silver lining you've got there!
Big positive, actually got out of the house today with Mom's help, and got my toes all prettified, and my heels sanded down. So from toe to ankle, you can't even tell I'm just days out of the hospital--unless you wonder at the dragging, halting pace, and the slow, majestic paths that lead from one cushioned object to another. Hallie got hers done too, with the same color as mine, and the same white flower on the big toe. She was so excited, she was nearly catatonic. Couldn't move, speak, smile, nothing...until we told her not to move. Rookie mistake, we know better. It was all kind of hilarious, and great to get out of the house, even if I was a menace on the road afterward because I kept shaking myself awake--remember the power-down things? Awkward when you're driving.
So...summing up time...it's all getting better, and I'm sure I'll remember at some point that there was a really good reason I did this, I just have to stop hurting to find it again. I think I left it under the Vicodin.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
The deed is done. I am now post-gastric bypass. Very silly of me, I now realize, but somehow the prospect of pain never factored into my thinking. And God said, Ha!
Upside, I think I lost 5 pounds today (if the scale can be trusted, the earth's gravity didn't shift, etc.). I'm just so damn glad to be out of the hospital I can't even say. I will say, however, that waking up from anesthesia is one of my top five least favorite things to do, and I can't even think what the other four would be.
Because apparently those events just weren't momentous enough on their own, my baby, my boy, my sweet little guy, got his first loose tooth today, at the tender age of 5 1/2. Also not something that had factored into my thinking, at least not till the ripe old age of 6. God's LOL-ing at me right now. Colin is ecstatic, I'm teary whenever I think of it, and Hallie is green with jealousy--and certain that she'll wake up to a loose tooth of her own. One traumatic event at a time for Mommy, sweetheart...
Upside, I think I lost 5 pounds today (if the scale can be trusted, the earth's gravity didn't shift, etc.). I'm just so damn glad to be out of the hospital I can't even say. I will say, however, that waking up from anesthesia is one of my top five least favorite things to do, and I can't even think what the other four would be.
Because apparently those events just weren't momentous enough on their own, my baby, my boy, my sweet little guy, got his first loose tooth today, at the tender age of 5 1/2. Also not something that had factored into my thinking, at least not till the ripe old age of 6. God's LOL-ing at me right now. Colin is ecstatic, I'm teary whenever I think of it, and Hallie is green with jealousy--and certain that she'll wake up to a loose tooth of her own. One traumatic event at a time for Mommy, sweetheart...
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