The worst environmental disaster in the history of the U.S.
As a woman facing 50, I am old enough to have seen the beginnings of the environmentalism. The first Earth Day. The initial calls for recycling. The No Nukes movement. The early days of Greenpeace and Friends of the Earth. The transformation of the Sierra Club from well-meaning, middle-aged, well-heeled do-gooding types to angry activists.
And yet here we are. The worst environmental disaster in the history of the U.S.
I have no words for what's going on in the Gulf right now. So I'll pass on the words of Ted Anthony and Mary Foster, two AP reporters*:
There is still a hole in the Earth, crude oil is still spewing forth from it and there is still, excruciatingly, no end in sight. After trying and trying again, one of the world's largest corporations, backed and pushed by the world's most powerful government, can't stop the runaway gushes.
As desperation grows and ecological disaster spreads, the operative word on the ground now is, incredibly, August--the earliest moment that a real resolution could be at hand.
And even then, there's no guarantee of success. For the United States and the people of its beleaguered Gulf Coast, a dispiriting summer of oil and anger lies dead ahead.
Oh--and the Atlantic hurricane season begins Tuesday. . . . It brings the horrifying possibility of wind-whipped, oil-soaked waves and water spinning ashore and coating areas much farther inland. Imagine Katrina plus oil leak.
Imagine.
*"August relief saps hope," The Advocate (Baton Rouge, LA), 31 May 2010, p. 1, p. 6.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Memorial Day
Memorial Day.
What sort of salutation does one use? Surely "Happy Memorial Day" is wrong for a day set aside to remember the American men and women who have died in war?
Memorial Day. The unofficial start of the American summer, a day spent shopping the sales and grilling at backyard barbecues and remembering the "Fallen." Tho' there seems to be a lot less remembering these days. Baton Rouge doesn't even have a parade. A good thing, I suppose, as all parades down here have been Mardi Gras-ified--doesn't matter if it's Christmas or St. Patrick's Day or 4th of July or a sports victory procession like the one greeting the Saints after the last Superbowl--it's all Mardi Gras, with vast drunken but good-natured crowds, breathtaking quantities of fried food, and enormous floats and the all-important "throws"--the stuff that float-riders throw and parade-goers catch: mostly plastic beads, medalllions, and cups, but also stuffed animals, ladies' lace panties, candy, foam footballs and frisbees, fake cigars, condoms, the occasional fruit or vegetable. I guess maybe the raucous south Louisiana parade culture wouldn't mesh well with the sober nature of Memorial Day.
But then again, when you think about the actual "Fallen," not the abstractions of the speeches but the actual guys, a few women but still mostly guys, mostly kids, just kids like Owen, trying to do the right thing in a world gone wrong, I dunno, wouldn't they have preferred a Mardi Gras-style parade over those somber processions led by elderly white gents with chests full of medals who drive up to the cemetery in limousines? Mardi Gras is the world-turned-upside-down, an affirmation of lunacy and rule-breaking and, most of all, an in-your-face insistence on enjoying the here-and-now right now, right here, on this sidewalk, on this street, at this never-to-be matched moment. Really, what could be more appropriate, more fitting, way to memorialize the deaths of too-young, brutally young soldiers, sailors, and marines?
Happy Memorial Day, fellas.
What sort of salutation does one use? Surely "Happy Memorial Day" is wrong for a day set aside to remember the American men and women who have died in war?
Memorial Day. The unofficial start of the American summer, a day spent shopping the sales and grilling at backyard barbecues and remembering the "Fallen." Tho' there seems to be a lot less remembering these days. Baton Rouge doesn't even have a parade. A good thing, I suppose, as all parades down here have been Mardi Gras-ified--doesn't matter if it's Christmas or St. Patrick's Day or 4th of July or a sports victory procession like the one greeting the Saints after the last Superbowl--it's all Mardi Gras, with vast drunken but good-natured crowds, breathtaking quantities of fried food, and enormous floats and the all-important "throws"--the stuff that float-riders throw and parade-goers catch: mostly plastic beads, medalllions, and cups, but also stuffed animals, ladies' lace panties, candy, foam footballs and frisbees, fake cigars, condoms, the occasional fruit or vegetable. I guess maybe the raucous south Louisiana parade culture wouldn't mesh well with the sober nature of Memorial Day.
But then again, when you think about the actual "Fallen," not the abstractions of the speeches but the actual guys, a few women but still mostly guys, mostly kids, just kids like Owen, trying to do the right thing in a world gone wrong, I dunno, wouldn't they have preferred a Mardi Gras-style parade over those somber processions led by elderly white gents with chests full of medals who drive up to the cemetery in limousines? Mardi Gras is the world-turned-upside-down, an affirmation of lunacy and rule-breaking and, most of all, an in-your-face insistence on enjoying the here-and-now right now, right here, on this sidewalk, on this street, at this never-to-be matched moment. Really, what could be more appropriate, more fitting, way to memorialize the deaths of too-young, brutally young soldiers, sailors, and marines?
Happy Memorial Day, fellas.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
The Good:
While home for my mom's 80th birthday extravaganza this past week, I attended a Cubs' game. You know, I'm really a simple soul. Give me a hotdog, a beer (even when the beer is Old Style and cost $7), and a sunny day in Wrigley Field, and I'm ineffably happy. The Cubs don't even have to win (good thing, or I wouldn't get to be happy very often). So, I was happy, and that was good.
But it got even better. When I went to purchase said $7 beer, the woman behind the counter asked me for my ID. Obviously a joke, right? I laughed good-naturedly. But then she looked at me sternly and pointed to a sign: "ALL CUSTOMERS AGED 35 AND UNDER MUST SHOW ID TO PURCHASE ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES." I laughed again. "Yeah, right. I'm almost 50. And you think I'm 35?" And she said, she said, she actually said, "No way!" Yep. That's what she said. No way. Sigh. (She probably goes home and yells, "Honey! You shoulda seen it! I made another old lady so happy today.")
The Bad:
After a year without menstruating, I got my period. Well. Spotting, really. But quantity is not the issue. (Not the issue, heh heh heh. Get it? "issue"? Old-fashioned word for menstrual blood? Oh, never mind. Historians' pun.) No, it's quality. This is not the bright red blood of a fertile, nubile, brilliant young thing. Nope, this is old blood. Rusty looking. It conjures up words like dessication. And shriveled. Dried up. Haggard. Or just plain hag.
"Hag" is bad.
The Ugly:
Hugh and I drove home together. Chicago to Baton Rouge. In a VW Beetle. But that wasn't the ugly part. We had a good time. He ate and drank constantly and so had to pee every 30 minutes or so, but frankly it was sort of nice not to play my usual role of The Person on the Trip Who Always Needs the Toilet.
The ugly came when we got home. As soon as we pulled into the driveway, Hugh transformed from witty (if urination-challenged) companion into Total Shit of a Teenaged Son. Ugly? Umm, yes. But not really, not when compared to my own instant transformation from a reasonable and somewhat good-humored, if rather tired (and desperately in need of a massage) woman into the Mother From Hell. Frustrated, short-tempered, quick to jump from tight-lipped commands to shrieking demands.
A hag, plain and simple.
A hag in need of a hot dog. And a beer. And Wrigley Field.
While home for my mom's 80th birthday extravaganza this past week, I attended a Cubs' game. You know, I'm really a simple soul. Give me a hotdog, a beer (even when the beer is Old Style and cost $7), and a sunny day in Wrigley Field, and I'm ineffably happy. The Cubs don't even have to win (good thing, or I wouldn't get to be happy very often). So, I was happy, and that was good.
But it got even better. When I went to purchase said $7 beer, the woman behind the counter asked me for my ID. Obviously a joke, right? I laughed good-naturedly. But then she looked at me sternly and pointed to a sign: "ALL CUSTOMERS AGED 35 AND UNDER MUST SHOW ID TO PURCHASE ALCOHOLIC BEVERAGES." I laughed again. "Yeah, right. I'm almost 50. And you think I'm 35?" And she said, she said, she actually said, "No way!" Yep. That's what she said. No way. Sigh. (She probably goes home and yells, "Honey! You shoulda seen it! I made another old lady so happy today.")
The Bad:
After a year without menstruating, I got my period. Well. Spotting, really. But quantity is not the issue. (Not the issue, heh heh heh. Get it? "issue"? Old-fashioned word for menstrual blood? Oh, never mind. Historians' pun.) No, it's quality. This is not the bright red blood of a fertile, nubile, brilliant young thing. Nope, this is old blood. Rusty looking. It conjures up words like dessication. And shriveled. Dried up. Haggard. Or just plain hag.
"Hag" is bad.
The Ugly:
Hugh and I drove home together. Chicago to Baton Rouge. In a VW Beetle. But that wasn't the ugly part. We had a good time. He ate and drank constantly and so had to pee every 30 minutes or so, but frankly it was sort of nice not to play my usual role of The Person on the Trip Who Always Needs the Toilet.
The ugly came when we got home. As soon as we pulled into the driveway, Hugh transformed from witty (if urination-challenged) companion into Total Shit of a Teenaged Son. Ugly? Umm, yes. But not really, not when compared to my own instant transformation from a reasonable and somewhat good-humored, if rather tired (and desperately in need of a massage) woman into the Mother From Hell. Frustrated, short-tempered, quick to jump from tight-lipped commands to shrieking demands.
A hag, plain and simple.
A hag in need of a hot dog. And a beer. And Wrigley Field.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
DNA
This weekend we celebrated my mom's 80th birthday with a weekend of family frivolity. "We" meant 5 of my mom's 6 surviving kids, 22 of her 24 grandchildren, all 15 of her great-grandchildren (as well as the 2 in utero), plus assorted spouses and partners. My family has always taken the "be fruitful and multiply" commandment very seriously.
Owen was one of the 2 absent grandchildren. It was an excused absence: he's bicycling across the country with a homeless advocacy group. Travel and volunteer work for a worthy cause--Mom wholeheartedly approves of both.
I missed him. Especially since I kept seeing him, various versions of him, bits and pieces of him. There he was at age 2, in the chubby cheeks and legs of my godson. And see, there, his thick and unruly blonde hair, on the head of my nephew's middle boy. And over there, there's his smile on another nephew. And my brother's face, a glimpse of the Owen yet to come.
In big family gatherings, the laws of time and space fall apart. I'm holding a baby, and it's me at 17, holding my very first niece or is it that niece at 17, holding baby Owen, or is it me again, holding my niece's first son? This stocky Tom Sawyer look-alike with freckles and a gap-toothed grin, it's my oldest nephew and yet it's his son. My second oldest brother's been dead for 37 years, but there's his walk, his stance, the way he wrinkled up his nose. All these strands, these fragments, tossed together, rearranged, updated, resurrected.
Except here is Hugh. No strands cling to him, no fragments of uncles or cousins reappear in the shape of his calves or the way he cocks his head. Cut from the biological web by adoption, Hugh stands free in his Hughness.
And yet. Love has its own biology and life in a family seems to produce its own genetic code. In Hugh's wicked sense of fun, his infectious personality and love of the outrageous, my dad comes back to life. Just like the grandpa he never knew, Hugh enjoys lobbing incendiary comments across the table and then sitting back to enjoy the fireworks. Deeper than DNA, somehow, love and life form their own thick web.
And, as it happens, my brown adopted baby fits into my extended family much better than my biological son--or me. Hugh prefers the vast houses, manicured lawns, and backyard swimming pools of suburbia; Hugh longs for an SUV; Hugh has a need for order and absolute rules that my family's political and religious conservatism fulfills. Desperate to hunt and fish and tinker with machines, Hugh suffocates in our book-lined house. But here, in the western suburbs of Chicago, Republicanville, the Land Beyond O'Hare, here Hugh comes into his own.
With his own family.
Owen was one of the 2 absent grandchildren. It was an excused absence: he's bicycling across the country with a homeless advocacy group. Travel and volunteer work for a worthy cause--Mom wholeheartedly approves of both.
I missed him. Especially since I kept seeing him, various versions of him, bits and pieces of him. There he was at age 2, in the chubby cheeks and legs of my godson. And see, there, his thick and unruly blonde hair, on the head of my nephew's middle boy. And over there, there's his smile on another nephew. And my brother's face, a glimpse of the Owen yet to come.
In big family gatherings, the laws of time and space fall apart. I'm holding a baby, and it's me at 17, holding my very first niece or is it that niece at 17, holding baby Owen, or is it me again, holding my niece's first son? This stocky Tom Sawyer look-alike with freckles and a gap-toothed grin, it's my oldest nephew and yet it's his son. My second oldest brother's been dead for 37 years, but there's his walk, his stance, the way he wrinkled up his nose. All these strands, these fragments, tossed together, rearranged, updated, resurrected.
Except here is Hugh. No strands cling to him, no fragments of uncles or cousins reappear in the shape of his calves or the way he cocks his head. Cut from the biological web by adoption, Hugh stands free in his Hughness.
And yet. Love has its own biology and life in a family seems to produce its own genetic code. In Hugh's wicked sense of fun, his infectious personality and love of the outrageous, my dad comes back to life. Just like the grandpa he never knew, Hugh enjoys lobbing incendiary comments across the table and then sitting back to enjoy the fireworks. Deeper than DNA, somehow, love and life form their own thick web.
And, as it happens, my brown adopted baby fits into my extended family much better than my biological son--or me. Hugh prefers the vast houses, manicured lawns, and backyard swimming pools of suburbia; Hugh longs for an SUV; Hugh has a need for order and absolute rules that my family's political and religious conservatism fulfills. Desperate to hunt and fish and tinker with machines, Hugh suffocates in our book-lined house. But here, in the western suburbs of Chicago, Republicanville, the Land Beyond O'Hare, here Hugh comes into his own.
With his own family.
Friday, May 21, 2010
Graceland
Driving from Baton Rouge to Chicago, listening to Paul Simon's Graceland album.
The album is, of course, a masterpiece, but the song "Graceland" is perfection. If Simon had done nothing at all in his life except write that song, he could have died knowing he had done great good in the world.
That evocative opening lyric:
The Mississippi Delta was shining
Like a National guitar
That brutal rendition of a love gone bad:
She comes back to tell me she's gone
As if I didn't know that
As if I didn't know my own bed
As if I'd never noticed
The way she brushed her hair from her forehead.
That wonderful description of life's craziness:
There's a girl in New York City
Who calls herself the human trampoline
And sometimes when I'm falling, flying
Or tumbling in turmoil I say
Oh, so this is what she means.
That account of heartbreak and loss:
Losing love
Is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you're blown apart
Everybody sees the wind blow.
And, most of all, that breathtaking affirmation of redemption:
I've a reason to believe
We all will be received
In Graceland.
And all that's left to say is, amen.
The album is, of course, a masterpiece, but the song "Graceland" is perfection. If Simon had done nothing at all in his life except write that song, he could have died knowing he had done great good in the world.
That evocative opening lyric:
The Mississippi Delta was shining
Like a National guitar
That brutal rendition of a love gone bad:
She comes back to tell me she's gone
As if I didn't know that
As if I didn't know my own bed
As if I'd never noticed
The way she brushed her hair from her forehead.
That wonderful description of life's craziness:
There's a girl in New York City
Who calls herself the human trampoline
And sometimes when I'm falling, flying
Or tumbling in turmoil I say
Oh, so this is what she means.
That account of heartbreak and loss:
Losing love
Is like a window in your heart
Everybody sees you're blown apart
Everybody sees the wind blow.
And, most of all, that breathtaking affirmation of redemption:
I've a reason to believe
We all will be received
In Graceland.
And all that's left to say is, amen.
Thursday, May 20, 2010
The Magic Words
I have found the key, the charm, the magic words for parenting teenaged sons. A short phrase, just four simple syllables:
Bikini wax.
No, you don't threaten them with it. You just say it.
Yesterday Owen telephoned, and we were chatting away when suddenly I remembered I had a 3:30 waxing appointment. "I'm sorry to cut you short, hon," said I, "but I have to go or I'll be late for my bikini wax." A groan emanated from the other end of the line. "Oh, oh, geez, why'd you actually have to say it? Why'd you have to ruin a perfectly good conversation?"
Hmm.
Then I hollered goodbye up to Hugh. "Yo, Hugh, I'm off."
"What? Where ya goin'?" (He always responds as if it's unthinkable I should ever actually have any place to go.)
"Bikini wax," I shouted.
"Ohh, that is so disgusting. I think I'm gonna be sick."
So there you have it. Two little words to fling at them whenever they're driving you nuts. Four seemingly innocuous yet oh-so-powerful syllables, and they're whimpering.
I wonder how they'd respond to Brazilian.
Bikini wax.
No, you don't threaten them with it. You just say it.
Yesterday Owen telephoned, and we were chatting away when suddenly I remembered I had a 3:30 waxing appointment. "I'm sorry to cut you short, hon," said I, "but I have to go or I'll be late for my bikini wax." A groan emanated from the other end of the line. "Oh, oh, geez, why'd you actually have to say it? Why'd you have to ruin a perfectly good conversation?"
Hmm.
Then I hollered goodbye up to Hugh. "Yo, Hugh, I'm off."
"What? Where ya goin'?" (He always responds as if it's unthinkable I should ever actually have any place to go.)
"Bikini wax," I shouted.
"Ohh, that is so disgusting. I think I'm gonna be sick."
So there you have it. Two little words to fling at them whenever they're driving you nuts. Four seemingly innocuous yet oh-so-powerful syllables, and they're whimpering.
I wonder how they'd respond to Brazilian.
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
It's happening
Woke up to the banner headline on the morning newspaper: "Oil enters La. marshes." We knew it was going to happen. But still. . . The heart aches.
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
Hatchets
My kids were still quite small when I realized that the only way that I would have the time and energy to be the sort of mother than I wanted to be was to get rid of my children. Otherwise I was bound to make a hatchet job of it.
Interesting phrase: "hatchet job." I guess the idea is that if you use a big ol' hatchet instead of the precision blade that the task requires, the process will be messy. Works for me. Me as mother, I mean.
I watch my niece with her two little boys and she's an artist, a sculptor, carefully trimming here, delicately carving there, using her exacting tools with such grace and attention to detail. Whereas I, I was more like Lizzie Borden than Michelangelo, or maybe just a rusty tin woodsman, hacking and gouging, wood chips flying, splinters everywhere.
Which is not to say that the end products necessarily reflect my lack of skill. Turns out children are less like blocks of wood than those antibiotic-resistant superviruses. Thank God.
Interesting phrase: "hatchet job." I guess the idea is that if you use a big ol' hatchet instead of the precision blade that the task requires, the process will be messy. Works for me. Me as mother, I mean.
I watch my niece with her two little boys and she's an artist, a sculptor, carefully trimming here, delicately carving there, using her exacting tools with such grace and attention to detail. Whereas I, I was more like Lizzie Borden than Michelangelo, or maybe just a rusty tin woodsman, hacking and gouging, wood chips flying, splinters everywhere.
Which is not to say that the end products necessarily reflect my lack of skill. Turns out children are less like blocks of wood than those antibiotic-resistant superviruses. Thank God.
Monday, May 17, 2010
Hoping for the worst
Is it a Bad Thing that I frequently hope that our strictly indoor cat will succeed in her never-ending quest to go outside, and then get eaten or run over?
Let me just note that I did have an indoor kitty who got outside--and got disembowelled by a stray dog. I still mourn her. There will always be a Spencer-shaped hole in my heart.
So I do know just how utterly horrifying the experience of a violent kitty death can be. And honestly, I actually like, even love my cats. Mind you, I'm not a Cat-Lover, not one of those people who decorate their homes with cat-themed items and think nothing of spending $10,000s on cat surgery and end up with 25 feline companions and no human friends. But I do enjoy having a cat or two around.
We have two. One is fine.
Then there is Smudge. Smudge is neurotic as hell. So am I. That's not the problem.
Technically, Smudge is Hugh's cat, tho' she lives in mortal fear of him and he finds her largely irrelevant to his now totally electronic life. It isn't really Hugh's fault that Smudge is terrified of him; she's terrified of everyone, except, usually tho' not always, me. If Smudge loves or trusts any human being, it's me.
And actually, I think she's lovely and I get a big kick out of the way she squeaks like some sort of land dolphin and I enjoy her company. But it would be a relief if she ran outside and got hit by a car. I don't want her in pain, mind you. A colossal accident is all I ask. Instant death.
Smudge, you see, pees on the furniture. On the sofas, on the beds, on the chairs, on the carpets. Unfortunately, I hadn't quite cottoned on to the peeing problem when I had her declawed as a kitten and therefore made her into an indoor cat. Nor is there much of a chance of finding a loving home for an indoor kitty with a pissing problem.
I've spent many many hours researching what to do about an incontinent kitty. And I've tried every single solution and suggestion. None of them--trust me on this--none of them work. (One of my all-time faves: "Cover your furniture with strips of aluminum foil. Cats hate it." Uh huh. Smudge treated it as a really fun new kind of kitty litter.)
Because of Smudge, one of my closest, most intimate relationships is with my Carpet/Upholstery Cleaner Guy. Cleaner Guy does his best. Nevertheless, sit on my sofas and soon--really soon if it's hot and humid, which is, oh, about 90% of the time here in south Louisiana--an unmistakeable odor will come wafting over.
I'm not "house-proud." I'd just prefer not to be engulfed in clouds of cat piss. Yet I can't just toss out an animal like an old pair of Dockers.
But if you happen to be driving by. . . and, well, it looks like there might be a kitty in the road, oh really, it's not, go ahead, accelerate. . . .
Let me just note that I did have an indoor kitty who got outside--and got disembowelled by a stray dog. I still mourn her. There will always be a Spencer-shaped hole in my heart.
So I do know just how utterly horrifying the experience of a violent kitty death can be. And honestly, I actually like, even love my cats. Mind you, I'm not a Cat-Lover, not one of those people who decorate their homes with cat-themed items and think nothing of spending $10,000s on cat surgery and end up with 25 feline companions and no human friends. But I do enjoy having a cat or two around.
We have two. One is fine.
Then there is Smudge. Smudge is neurotic as hell. So am I. That's not the problem.
Technically, Smudge is Hugh's cat, tho' she lives in mortal fear of him and he finds her largely irrelevant to his now totally electronic life. It isn't really Hugh's fault that Smudge is terrified of him; she's terrified of everyone, except, usually tho' not always, me. If Smudge loves or trusts any human being, it's me.
And actually, I think she's lovely and I get a big kick out of the way she squeaks like some sort of land dolphin and I enjoy her company. But it would be a relief if she ran outside and got hit by a car. I don't want her in pain, mind you. A colossal accident is all I ask. Instant death.
Smudge, you see, pees on the furniture. On the sofas, on the beds, on the chairs, on the carpets. Unfortunately, I hadn't quite cottoned on to the peeing problem when I had her declawed as a kitten and therefore made her into an indoor cat. Nor is there much of a chance of finding a loving home for an indoor kitty with a pissing problem.
I've spent many many hours researching what to do about an incontinent kitty. And I've tried every single solution and suggestion. None of them--trust me on this--none of them work. (One of my all-time faves: "Cover your furniture with strips of aluminum foil. Cats hate it." Uh huh. Smudge treated it as a really fun new kind of kitty litter.)
Because of Smudge, one of my closest, most intimate relationships is with my Carpet/Upholstery Cleaner Guy. Cleaner Guy does his best. Nevertheless, sit on my sofas and soon--really soon if it's hot and humid, which is, oh, about 90% of the time here in south Louisiana--an unmistakeable odor will come wafting over.
I'm not "house-proud." I'd just prefer not to be engulfed in clouds of cat piss. Yet I can't just toss out an animal like an old pair of Dockers.
But if you happen to be driving by. . . and, well, it looks like there might be a kitty in the road, oh really, it's not, go ahead, accelerate. . . .
Sunday, May 16, 2010
Newspapers and books and stuff
'Tis the time of year when I am called to do penance for my sins or at least to pay for the pleasures of life in Academia. And on the whole, in general, looking at the big picture, averaging up, putting all things in context, I do find life in Academia a pleasure. Relatively speaking.
Except now comes the Grading. Sigh.
Surely, oh please God, surely they've learned more than this.
Oh, the futility. The pointlessness. The waste. The what-the-fuck? The horror. Oh, the horror.
A number of years ago I had a student who wrote a fascinating essay about Louis XIV's invention of the atom bomb.
Then there are the students who, in the interests of "objectivity," argue that it is important not to condemn the Nazis, for once one grasps the Nazi perspective, once one walks a mile in their jackboots, so to speak, one can see their point. Oh. Dear. God.
On my desk right now, at this very moment, sits a stack of essays defending Stalin.
Truly, I do not teach them that It Is Important to Understand Where Stalin Was At. Yet, somewhere, in the air between the words that emanate from my mouth, and the words on the pages of the reading assignments, and their less-than-eager brains, this weird, horrifying transformation/translation occurs.
Still. Sometimes there are Wonderful Moments. Like the window into the world view of a 20-year-old that opened in a final paper submitted last week. This particular student was writing about the effects of large-scale immigration--particularly from non-Western, non-white cultures--into western Europe in the 1950s-1970s, . OK. He argued that as a result of the postwar immigration patterns, Europeans were forced to encounter and assimilate new cultures in new ways. OK. Then came the Wonderful Moment: He explained that never before had Europeans had access to the ideas and customs of such different cultures because "There was no Internet back then--only newspapers and books and stuff."
Only newspapers and books and stuff.
Right.
Suddenly, I see the world, my world, thru a 20-year-old's eyes. We who grew up in the Pre-Internet Ages, we were something akin to medieval serfs, grunting in monosyllables, unaware of anything outside the boundaries of the village, unable to comprehend a life beyond that of the necessities of getting by in the here and now and the threat of eternity in hell. Benighted souls, beyond comprehension, almost beyond pity, we had "only newspapers and books and stuff."
The world we have lost. Like, totally.
Except now comes the Grading. Sigh.
Surely, oh please God, surely they've learned more than this.
Oh, the futility. The pointlessness. The waste. The what-the-fuck? The horror. Oh, the horror.
A number of years ago I had a student who wrote a fascinating essay about Louis XIV's invention of the atom bomb.
Then there are the students who, in the interests of "objectivity," argue that it is important not to condemn the Nazis, for once one grasps the Nazi perspective, once one walks a mile in their jackboots, so to speak, one can see their point. Oh. Dear. God.
On my desk right now, at this very moment, sits a stack of essays defending Stalin.
Truly, I do not teach them that It Is Important to Understand Where Stalin Was At. Yet, somewhere, in the air between the words that emanate from my mouth, and the words on the pages of the reading assignments, and their less-than-eager brains, this weird, horrifying transformation/translation occurs.
Still. Sometimes there are Wonderful Moments. Like the window into the world view of a 20-year-old that opened in a final paper submitted last week. This particular student was writing about the effects of large-scale immigration--particularly from non-Western, non-white cultures--into western Europe in the 1950s-1970s, . OK. He argued that as a result of the postwar immigration patterns, Europeans were forced to encounter and assimilate new cultures in new ways. OK. Then came the Wonderful Moment: He explained that never before had Europeans had access to the ideas and customs of such different cultures because "There was no Internet back then--only newspapers and books and stuff."
Only newspapers and books and stuff.
Right.
Suddenly, I see the world, my world, thru a 20-year-old's eyes. We who grew up in the Pre-Internet Ages, we were something akin to medieval serfs, grunting in monosyllables, unaware of anything outside the boundaries of the village, unable to comprehend a life beyond that of the necessities of getting by in the here and now and the threat of eternity in hell. Benighted souls, beyond comprehension, almost beyond pity, we had "only newspapers and books and stuff."
The world we have lost. Like, totally.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
Better keep the sermon short
Yesterday the Louisiana House of Representatives voted 74-18 to allow the carrying of concealed handguns in churches.
I can't believe I live here.
I can't believe I live here.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The play's the thing
Yesterday the Royal Shakespeare Company's latest version of Hamlet arrived on dvd. Because we didn't get started on it til later in the night, we had to stop halfway through and so I've been waiting all day to resume watching--I just can't wait to see how it all turns out.
I know. It's friggin' Hamlet. I have read and seen it. But oh, many many ages ago. Let's see, the last Hamlet I saw was Mel Gibson's, and I was heavily pregnant with Owen, and so I slept through all but the first few minutes. And before that, oh gosh, college I guess.
It's not that I've forgotten the ending, not really, well, not totally, I mean, I have a kind of vague recollection. . . all those bodies. . . but I had forgotten so many of the twists and turns--not forgotten per se as much as just not remembered, you know? Like when you return to a childhood place and you keep saying, "Oh, right, that's right, that's where they lived!"
But the real point is, although I do know how Hamlet ends, I don't know how this Hamlet ends. RSC productions always cause a bit of a buzz in Britain, but in this case the buzz sounded more like the roar of a chain saw rather than a bee's temperate bzzz bzzz--because the amazing David Tennant--the Tenth Doctor in Doctor Who, the man for whom I'd leave my husband and have lots of babies, hey! haven't you heard of surrogacy?--is in the leading role. And, in addition to my beloved Doctor, it's also just a really great, thought-provoking production.
And then there's another point. I hate this point.
The thing is, I've never watched Hamlet before as a, as a, umm, ya know, as a (shhh-whisper this) middle-aged woman. So here I am, sympathizing with Gertrude. Is it this production, or is it me? I'm even willing to give Claudius a chance. Just a wee bit, but still, a bit of a chance. And there's a part of me that wants to sit Hamlet down and say, "Honey, let's talk about your choices."
I know. It's friggin' Hamlet. I have read and seen it. But oh, many many ages ago. Let's see, the last Hamlet I saw was Mel Gibson's, and I was heavily pregnant with Owen, and so I slept through all but the first few minutes. And before that, oh gosh, college I guess.
It's not that I've forgotten the ending, not really, well, not totally, I mean, I have a kind of vague recollection. . . all those bodies. . . but I had forgotten so many of the twists and turns--not forgotten per se as much as just not remembered, you know? Like when you return to a childhood place and you keep saying, "Oh, right, that's right, that's where they lived!"
But the real point is, although I do know how Hamlet ends, I don't know how this Hamlet ends. RSC productions always cause a bit of a buzz in Britain, but in this case the buzz sounded more like the roar of a chain saw rather than a bee's temperate bzzz bzzz--because the amazing David Tennant--the Tenth Doctor in Doctor Who, the man for whom I'd leave my husband and have lots of babies, hey! haven't you heard of surrogacy?--is in the leading role. And, in addition to my beloved Doctor, it's also just a really great, thought-provoking production.
And then there's another point. I hate this point.
The thing is, I've never watched Hamlet before as a, as a, umm, ya know, as a (shhh-whisper this) middle-aged woman. So here I am, sympathizing with Gertrude. Is it this production, or is it me? I'm even willing to give Claudius a chance. Just a wee bit, but still, a bit of a chance. And there's a part of me that wants to sit Hamlet down and say, "Honey, let's talk about your choices."
Monday, May 10, 2010
Random Choices
Today Obama announced the nomination of Elena Kagan for the Supreme Court. The report on National Public Radio gave a brief bio--and I was startled to learn that Kagan is only 50.
"only 50"--not a phrase one hears very often. I'll bet no one is suggesting that Elena Kagan attend "Life After 50" expos or wear a red hat when she lunches with her lady friends.
But then again, she's nominated for the Supreme Court. Geez. She's only 50 and she's nominated for the Supreme Court. I'm facing 50 and I'm nowhere near the Supreme Court, or the historians' version of the Supreme Court. I feel like such a putz.
You'd think I'd be immune to this by now. After all, we now have a president who is younger than I am. I hate that. OK, yes, my doctor is in her 30s, and my dentist looks like one of the frat boys who sit in the back of my classes and watch porn on their laptops, and Hugh's high school teachers--good lord--I swear that his English teacher is also the head cheerleader and senior class president (well within the realm of possibility given the budget cuts). But still. Doctors and teachers can sometimes be young. Presidents, however, are supposed to be old. And Supreme Court Justices are supposed to be even older. Therefore, they cannot be my age or younger. It's logically impossible.
Which is a comfort. If I'm living in a logically impossible world, then maybe it's not my fault that my career trajectory has been, well, pretty much a flat line for the last 15 years. Things don't add up. The "if-then" does not produce the expected conclusion. Life is random. Chance is all. Cool. Because then. . . choices do not have consequences, or they do, but they're entirely unexpected and uncontrollable. Totally cool. I'm going to have another glass of wine now.
"only 50"--not a phrase one hears very often. I'll bet no one is suggesting that Elena Kagan attend "Life After 50" expos or wear a red hat when she lunches with her lady friends.
But then again, she's nominated for the Supreme Court. Geez. She's only 50 and she's nominated for the Supreme Court. I'm facing 50 and I'm nowhere near the Supreme Court, or the historians' version of the Supreme Court. I feel like such a putz.
You'd think I'd be immune to this by now. After all, we now have a president who is younger than I am. I hate that. OK, yes, my doctor is in her 30s, and my dentist looks like one of the frat boys who sit in the back of my classes and watch porn on their laptops, and Hugh's high school teachers--good lord--I swear that his English teacher is also the head cheerleader and senior class president (well within the realm of possibility given the budget cuts). But still. Doctors and teachers can sometimes be young. Presidents, however, are supposed to be old. And Supreme Court Justices are supposed to be even older. Therefore, they cannot be my age or younger. It's logically impossible.
Which is a comfort. If I'm living in a logically impossible world, then maybe it's not my fault that my career trajectory has been, well, pretty much a flat line for the last 15 years. Things don't add up. The "if-then" does not produce the expected conclusion. Life is random. Chance is all. Cool. Because then. . . choices do not have consequences, or they do, but they're entirely unexpected and uncontrollable. Totally cool. I'm going to have another glass of wine now.
Friday, May 7, 2010
Life after 50
A couple of weeks ago, Baton Rouge hosted the "Life After 50" expo. The ads promised a delectable array of products and services aimed at the "50-plus set." The 50-plus set? I turn 50 and I'm in a new set? Harumph.
Needless to say, I did not attend--a decision confirmed by the photo in the local paper the next day, which featured three decidedly geriatric individuals, biting dubiously into Kalamata Tapenade Bruschetta (the Suggested Choice for Healthy After-50 Entertaining). Hmmph. No perky chirpy dietician needs to introduce me to bruschetta or tapenade or kalamata olives, thank you very much.
The next week the same local newspaper featured a big article on the Red Hat Ladies. You know, those old, spunky ladies who dress up in purple and wear gargantuan red hats and go out for lunch and act wild and crazy over spinach salad and iced tea. To my horror, I learned that a woman can be transformed into a Red Hat Lady at the ripe old age of, yes, 50.
50!! I turned the page with a contemptuous sniff. Gimme a break. 50! Hardly the start of old age.
One should never sniff contemptuously. One should never dismiss perky chirpy dieticians. One will pay. Big time.
Today I went to the podiatrist for my ridiculously sore foot. No, it's not gout as Keith predicted. It is, the extremely competent, efficient, articulate doctor who looked all of 16 years old explained, a matter of jammed bones, leading to bone spurs, leading to arthritis. Wahh.
Leading to extremely painful injection into sore toe joint this afternoon. Extreme Wahh.
Leading, most likely to surgery.
Fine. One and a half months short of my 50th birthday, and the road ahead is clear: rapid physical disintegration and decay.
Excuse me. I'm off to search out other members of my 50-plus set. And I have to shop for a really big red hat. And make up a batch of Kalamata Tapenade Bruschetta.
Needless to say, I did not attend--a decision confirmed by the photo in the local paper the next day, which featured three decidedly geriatric individuals, biting dubiously into Kalamata Tapenade Bruschetta (the Suggested Choice for Healthy After-50 Entertaining). Hmmph. No perky chirpy dietician needs to introduce me to bruschetta or tapenade or kalamata olives, thank you very much.
The next week the same local newspaper featured a big article on the Red Hat Ladies. You know, those old, spunky ladies who dress up in purple and wear gargantuan red hats and go out for lunch and act wild and crazy over spinach salad and iced tea. To my horror, I learned that a woman can be transformed into a Red Hat Lady at the ripe old age of, yes, 50.
50!! I turned the page with a contemptuous sniff. Gimme a break. 50! Hardly the start of old age.
One should never sniff contemptuously. One should never dismiss perky chirpy dieticians. One will pay. Big time.
Today I went to the podiatrist for my ridiculously sore foot. No, it's not gout as Keith predicted. It is, the extremely competent, efficient, articulate doctor who looked all of 16 years old explained, a matter of jammed bones, leading to bone spurs, leading to arthritis. Wahh.
Leading to extremely painful injection into sore toe joint this afternoon. Extreme Wahh.
Leading, most likely to surgery.
Fine. One and a half months short of my 50th birthday, and the road ahead is clear: rapid physical disintegration and decay.
Excuse me. I'm off to search out other members of my 50-plus set. And I have to shop for a really big red hat. And make up a batch of Kalamata Tapenade Bruschetta.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
A Southern thang
There are many things I hate about living in the South. But there's one thing of such absolute beauty, such transcendent purity, such keen pleasure, that it almost makes up for the heat, the humidity, the gargantuan roaches, the killer mosquitoes, the stinging caterpillars, the biting ants, the race-based politics, the gobsmacking parochialism, the grass that grows sideways, the omnipresent sexism, and Katrina. . . . ok, not Katrina. . . .
Where was I?
Oh yes, the Good Thing about Living in the South:
Quite simply, this glorious concoction called pimento cheese spread.
Non-Southerners will not know about pimento cheese spread. I first met it at a children's birthday party when Owen was about 4. Which means I had lived in the South for over six years--six wasted years, six years-worth of lost pimento-cheese-spread opportunities.
I will not try to describe pimento cheese spread. Suffice it to say it's kind of a fluorescent orange color with red flecks and you spread it on bread or crackers, or you dip raw vegetables into it, or (if you're me) you dip your finger straight into the container and eat it straight. It's not good for you in the physical, healthy, weight-loss sense. But it's positively great in the boy-this-tastes-great-I-feel-so-much-better-maybe-I-won't-kill-my-kids-yet sense.
It's a Southern thang, y'all. And frankly my dears, you should give it a try.
Where was I?
Oh yes, the Good Thing about Living in the South:
Quite simply, this glorious concoction called pimento cheese spread.
Non-Southerners will not know about pimento cheese spread. I first met it at a children's birthday party when Owen was about 4. Which means I had lived in the South for over six years--six wasted years, six years-worth of lost pimento-cheese-spread opportunities.
I will not try to describe pimento cheese spread. Suffice it to say it's kind of a fluorescent orange color with red flecks and you spread it on bread or crackers, or you dip raw vegetables into it, or (if you're me) you dip your finger straight into the container and eat it straight. It's not good for you in the physical, healthy, weight-loss sense. But it's positively great in the boy-this-tastes-great-I-feel-so-much-better-maybe-I-won't-kill-my-kids-yet sense.
It's a Southern thang, y'all. And frankly my dears, you should give it a try.
Deja vu all over again
It's 95 degrees with 98% humidity; the mosquitoes are back in force; the state legislature is in session and our esteemed statesmen are debating whether or not we have a constitutional right to carry concealed handguns in church; LSU faces enormous budget cuts; and a major ecological disaster looms just off the coast.
In other words, same ol' same ol' in Louisiana.
In other words, same ol' same ol' in Louisiana.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Changing Table
One day I was changing then three-month-old Owen's diaper. Grasping his ankles in my left hand, I had his butt hoisted up when suddenly, he pooped. Which means he squirted, with truly awesome explosive force, as liquid-fed little babies tend to do. The brown goo went flying across the room, splattered against the wall, and then dripped down into the laundry basket below--the laundry basket containing all the freshly washed, just folded clothes.
I reacted as I always do in any crisis: badly. I thrust my hand toward his bottom in a ridiculous, completely futile attempt to block the flow. Instead, I succeeded only in diverting a significant quantity of the liquid shit onto the baby and me.
Dripping in excrement, I looked down on my fecal-flecked son. Who then peed. And, since he's a boy and since I had left his peeing instrument uncovered, the piss went sailing in a graceful arc, straight into my face and my open, aghast mouth.
My son looked up at his sputtering, gagging, urine-soaked and crap-coated mother. And laughed, that amazing straight from the core belly laugh that only a baby, delighted with this new world and all its wonders, can pull off.
Burbling over the changing table, Owen's laughter embraced me and through the piss streaming down my face and the shit dripping off my eyelashes, I laughed back. And we laughed and laughed and laughed until Owen got the hiccups and the poo dried to a crust on my cheeks.
All of which highlighted Three Important Truths:
1. Children will hit you with an amazing amount of piss and shit (actual and metaphorical).
2. Probably the best response is to take a few steps back. Nevertheless, I will, invariably, unfailingly, thrust myself right into the shit stream.
3. In the end, there is laughter.
Or else, you're really fucked.
I reacted as I always do in any crisis: badly. I thrust my hand toward his bottom in a ridiculous, completely futile attempt to block the flow. Instead, I succeeded only in diverting a significant quantity of the liquid shit onto the baby and me.
Dripping in excrement, I looked down on my fecal-flecked son. Who then peed. And, since he's a boy and since I had left his peeing instrument uncovered, the piss went sailing in a graceful arc, straight into my face and my open, aghast mouth.
My son looked up at his sputtering, gagging, urine-soaked and crap-coated mother. And laughed, that amazing straight from the core belly laugh that only a baby, delighted with this new world and all its wonders, can pull off.
Burbling over the changing table, Owen's laughter embraced me and through the piss streaming down my face and the shit dripping off my eyelashes, I laughed back. And we laughed and laughed and laughed until Owen got the hiccups and the poo dried to a crust on my cheeks.
All of which highlighted Three Important Truths:
1. Children will hit you with an amazing amount of piss and shit (actual and metaphorical).
2. Probably the best response is to take a few steps back. Nevertheless, I will, invariably, unfailingly, thrust myself right into the shit stream.
3. In the end, there is laughter.
Or else, you're really fucked.
Tuesday, May 4, 2010
But I've never had a serving wench
In an earlier post I wrote about my weirdly sore foot. Now it's not only sore, it's puffy and it throbs. "Throbs"--I love that word. You say it, and it sounds just like what it means: thrrrOOOBBsssss: WAH wah WAH wah WAH. . .
Keith thinks I have gout.
Gout. GOUT!! Gout. How can I have gout? Eighteenth-century English squires in velvet reading jackets who consume two bottles of port every night and feast on pheasant and sheep's head and finger up their serving wenches get gout. Feminist historians who drink soy milk and eat vegan chili and have no serving wenches do not get gout.
Do they?
Keith thinks I have gout.
Gout. GOUT!! Gout. How can I have gout? Eighteenth-century English squires in velvet reading jackets who consume two bottles of port every night and feast on pheasant and sheep's head and finger up their serving wenches get gout. Feminist historians who drink soy milk and eat vegan chili and have no serving wenches do not get gout.
Do they?
Sunday, May 2, 2010
Surfacing
Marriage is so strange.
Keith was out of town the last several days, off at a conference in Nashville learning the latest on a vast federal government digital data homeless management program. Sounds riveting, doesn't it? The program is called something like the FFRSIP; when Keith and his colleagues and co-workers get together they speak in a jumble of acronyms and numerical codes:
"And then he demanded we input the HR47W6 in just 4 days!"
"Oh, I know, once--get this--once he called up on a Friday afternoon and said he had to have the 6Q14BR2 by Monday. Monday!"
"Well, at least it wasn't the 7Z14 BR2!"
Gales of knowing laughter.
I smile vaguely, glance at my watch, and count the wine glasses over the bar.
When we met, Keith was a campus minister: a college chaplain, except of course LSU is a public university and so does not and cannot have chaplains. Instead, the university campus serves as a kind of ship all around which cling, like barnacles, the buildings that house the various non-taxpayer-funded, not-at-all-official university campus ministries. There's the massive Roman Catholic student center and the just-as-massive-but-in-a-non-liturgical-sort-of-way-don't-you-dare-confuse-us-with-the-Catholics Baptist student center, and then a bunch of little buildings for all the fringe groups (this is Louisiana: if you're not Catholic or Baptist, you're fringe): the Episcopalians, the Lutherans, the Mormons, the Muslims, and the various non-denominational groups that in England would be called "happy-clappy." Hillel, the Jewish student group, has a presence on campus, but no actual building (tho' on Sukkot, a grass hut-like structure does appear in front of the Student Union).
Keith ran the what was then the ecumenical Methodist and Presbyterian student center--during his time, pretty much the only progressive Christian group on campus. A voice crying in the darkness. A tiny light, always threatened with extinction by the vast bushel of Southern fundamentalism, racism, homophobia, and, well, fear of anything "furrin'".
Back then, Keith did not speak in acronyms and numerical codes. Back then, he hated forms and regulations of any kind. He preached powerful sermons. He took students on work trips to Mexico. He served as administrator to the building that was a kind of liberal sanctuary: the meeting place for the Vegetarian Society, NOW, the Big Buddy program, the Quakers, Alcoholics Anonymous, the Progressive Student Alliance, the Coalition to Save the Wetlands, the Center for Peace and Justice, the Jazz Society. He comforted the lonely and gave shelter to the homeless and counseled the oppressed and depressed. When he talked about his work, I got it.
I don't get it anymore.
I get the importance of what he does: bringing in millions of dollars worth of funding for homeless prevention programs, working with all the various private and public agencies in town that deal with the homeless, liaising with federal, state, and local officials, helping devise policy and evaluate programs. And I get why he finds it so satisfying, after the formlessness, the lack of any concrete results, the utter futility of so much associated with mainline Protestantism today. But the day-to-day stuff, the answer to the question, "So, what did you do today?"--that, I do not get.
And that's weird for me. For us.
There's a part of me that's fine with it all. He's happy. He's challenged. He's satisfied. That's good. (The income? Not so good. But let's face it: I didn't marry this man for his money.) That part of me is ok with the vast gulf that now yawns between his professional life and mine, with the fact that if he actually tells me what he did today I have no idea what he's talking about and find it all really amazingly incredibly boring. Because basically I'm a loner. I'm pretty comfortable living in my head, on my own, just me and my fantasies and neuroses, with the occasional surfacing into human connection for a lovely meal, for sex, for a good laugh, and then the quick dive back down into me again.
But the thing is, that part of me, that's the dangerous part of me. The part that goes nutso.
There's another part. The part that values and nurtures and fights fiercely for community, for good solid friendships, for relationships built over time and negotiated through differences and tempered through hardship. When I married Keith, I chose this part of me, the good part, the connected part. Not the nutso, loner part.
So here we are. Keith has a job that is so good for him and for this community. He is making the world a better place. This world, our world, south Louisiana, this funky microcosm of earthly vulnerability. (As I write this, the BP oil spill threatens the coast, the region, the state, with utter disaster.)
And yet this job--this calling--of his also, as it happens, nurtures not only the structures that will/should end homelessness in our lifetime, it also feeds the worst part of me. The nutso, loner part.
And so, here's The Question. Does a Woman Facing 50 say, "Oh Husband o' Mine, stop doing good in the world. Stop doing what you were born to do. Because, see, well, if I stay under too long, I just might not be able to find my way to the surface."
Marriage is so strange.
Keith was out of town the last several days, off at a conference in Nashville learning the latest on a vast federal government digital data homeless management program. Sounds riveting, doesn't it? The program is called something like the FFRSIP; when Keith and his colleagues and co-workers get together they speak in a jumble of acronyms and numerical codes:
"And then he demanded we input the HR47W6 in just 4 days!"
"Oh, I know, once--get this--once he called up on a Friday afternoon and said he had to have the 6Q14BR2 by Monday. Monday!"
"Well, at least it wasn't the 7Z14 BR2!"
Gales of knowing laughter.
I smile vaguely, glance at my watch, and count the wine glasses over the bar.
When we met, Keith was a campus minister: a college chaplain, except of course LSU is a public university and so does not and cannot have chaplains. Instead, the university campus serves as a kind of ship all around which cling, like barnacles, the buildings that house the various non-taxpayer-funded, not-at-all-official university campus ministries. There's the massive Roman Catholic student center and the just-as-massive-but-in-a-non-liturgical-sort-of-way-don't-you-dare-confuse-us-with-the-Catholics Baptist student center, and then a bunch of little buildings for all the fringe groups (this is Louisiana: if you're not Catholic or Baptist, you're fringe): the Episcopalians, the Lutherans, the Mormons, the Muslims, and the various non-denominational groups that in England would be called "happy-clappy." Hillel, the Jewish student group, has a presence on campus, but no actual building (tho' on Sukkot, a grass hut-like structure does appear in front of the Student Union).
Keith ran the what was then the ecumenical Methodist and Presbyterian student center--during his time, pretty much the only progressive Christian group on campus. A voice crying in the darkness. A tiny light, always threatened with extinction by the vast bushel of Southern fundamentalism, racism, homophobia, and, well, fear of anything "furrin'".
Back then, Keith did not speak in acronyms and numerical codes. Back then, he hated forms and regulations of any kind. He preached powerful sermons. He took students on work trips to Mexico. He served as administrator to the building that was a kind of liberal sanctuary: the meeting place for the Vegetarian Society, NOW, the Big Buddy program, the Quakers, Alcoholics Anonymous, the Progressive Student Alliance, the Coalition to Save the Wetlands, the Center for Peace and Justice, the Jazz Society. He comforted the lonely and gave shelter to the homeless and counseled the oppressed and depressed. When he talked about his work, I got it.
I don't get it anymore.
I get the importance of what he does: bringing in millions of dollars worth of funding for homeless prevention programs, working with all the various private and public agencies in town that deal with the homeless, liaising with federal, state, and local officials, helping devise policy and evaluate programs. And I get why he finds it so satisfying, after the formlessness, the lack of any concrete results, the utter futility of so much associated with mainline Protestantism today. But the day-to-day stuff, the answer to the question, "So, what did you do today?"--that, I do not get.
And that's weird for me. For us.
There's a part of me that's fine with it all. He's happy. He's challenged. He's satisfied. That's good. (The income? Not so good. But let's face it: I didn't marry this man for his money.) That part of me is ok with the vast gulf that now yawns between his professional life and mine, with the fact that if he actually tells me what he did today I have no idea what he's talking about and find it all really amazingly incredibly boring. Because basically I'm a loner. I'm pretty comfortable living in my head, on my own, just me and my fantasies and neuroses, with the occasional surfacing into human connection for a lovely meal, for sex, for a good laugh, and then the quick dive back down into me again.
But the thing is, that part of me, that's the dangerous part of me. The part that goes nutso.
There's another part. The part that values and nurtures and fights fiercely for community, for good solid friendships, for relationships built over time and negotiated through differences and tempered through hardship. When I married Keith, I chose this part of me, the good part, the connected part. Not the nutso, loner part.
So here we are. Keith has a job that is so good for him and for this community. He is making the world a better place. This world, our world, south Louisiana, this funky microcosm of earthly vulnerability. (As I write this, the BP oil spill threatens the coast, the region, the state, with utter disaster.)
And yet this job--this calling--of his also, as it happens, nurtures not only the structures that will/should end homelessness in our lifetime, it also feeds the worst part of me. The nutso, loner part.
And so, here's The Question. Does a Woman Facing 50 say, "Oh Husband o' Mine, stop doing good in the world. Stop doing what you were born to do. Because, see, well, if I stay under too long, I just might not be able to find my way to the surface."
Marriage is so strange.
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