"America is not the greatest country in the world" states Aaron Sorkin through the mouth of Jeff Daniels as Will McAvoy in the HBO series The Newsroom. I won't reiterate the reasons why Sorkin/McAvoy believes that America is not the greatest country in the world. You can watch it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h__uutzcQXc&feature=related. And maybe you'll agree, or maybe you'll disagree vehemently and respond to that knee jerk reactionwith the belief that I must be a liberal and a commie and an ungrateful, unpatriotic person who does not deserve to be an American. That is as far away from the truth as you can get. I love my country, but I don't love it blindly.
Sorkin/McAvoy point out that the United States is not number one in much of anything anymore, and we are not the only country that guarantees freedoms for our citizens. We don't hear about those countries. We only hear about the ones who don't. According to Sorkin's info (and he does do his research), we are #1 in defense spending and the number of incarcerated individuals per capita in our jails. But we are "4th in literacy, 27th in math, 22nd in science, 49th in life expectancy, 178th in infant mortality" and the list goes on. Granted figures never lie, and liars figure as the old saying goes, and some of these numbers may have changed since the script was written. But the truth is that after six decades of growing up and living in America, I have seen how we have ceased to be the land of my childhood, and in ways that these figures don't reveal.
We had to rely on the Supreme Court for a ruling that would make it mandatory that people in this country have basic health care. Imagine. People have been fighting over people's right to "life." Hey, is that one of the tenets of our Declaration of Independence? Is not one of the key principles of our founding the right to "life," and doesn't that right include keeping our lives intact for as long as possible, given whatever means are at our disposal? Does that also not give us the right to end our lives when they are too difficult to bear? Yet, we fight the issue of medical marijuana because 'big pharma" can't make a nickel from it, and we have forbidden people the right to elect physician assisted suicide when their pain and suffering is unremitting and unbearable in cases of terminal illness. We argue that every embryo from the point of conception is a life that must be saved and then limit women's access to free or low-cost health care to maintain the wellness of these unborn children. We use religion as a way to restrict a woman's freedom to choose to have a child, but we see nothing wrong with taking ending a person's life through capital punishment. How many innocent people have died, even with DNA testing because of poor representation or unreliable witnesses or irresponsible and biased juries? When I was a child, the family doctor came to our house. If we went to the office, it cost us $7. He didn't have a fancy reception area, and he didn't order unnecessary tests because he was afraid of malpractice suits. He treated you according to his education, skill, expience, and, often gut-feeling, and he got my family through some pretty difficult issues. We didn't have for-profit hospitals (Which Einstein thought THAT was a good idea?)
We don't let our kids play outside because we fear that they will be abducted or sexually molested, yet two recent court cases have shown that our children are more at risk from the adults we entrust them to than to strangers. Yet we care more that our kids can play Little League than that they actually learn something about the world around them. When I was a child - no older than 8 or 9, my mother would give me some money - maybe a dollar or two- and let me walk two miles "downtown" to the local Five and Dime to buy my school supplies. I was able to pick and choose what I needed, learn that money was something real that once spent was gone, and learn from some of the wrong choices I might have made. (A pen with a flower on top had less ink than the plain pen and cost more.) If I spent wisely, I had money for an ice cream or a candy bar. If I didn't, I had to forego the treat. Now kids think that if you whip out plastic, every item in the store is yours. Money? They never see it. It's become an intangible. Even to our government, money is an intangible, backed up by promises and not the gold it used to be.
We have stopped making progress. There is little if any forward motion in our country. We are at a dead stop. We are pushing out college graduates, yet have no jobs for them. It's been like this on the graduate school level for years - the one reason I didn't get a PhD was because the only guaranteed job at the end of ten years of college and a ton of student loans was "unemployed" or adjunct work. Now, many of my first -year college students will find themselves in the same position - either unemployed or clerking at the local convenience store, finally learning that their $60K in student loans does represent real money, as does their rent, car payments, insurance payments, and food. By then, Mom and Dad will be unable, for the most part, to continue to support them. We are heading to be a nation of strugglers - not people who "knew" that the next generation would have it better than we did because America was the best country in the world - a land of opportunity.
Yes, there are opportunities for some. But how many Steve Jobs and Steve Zuckerbergs are out there? Andy many of our biggest success stories are foreign born individuals who don't take what we have for granted. We live in a country where intellectual property is our main production, and yet those same intellectual property pursuits by one erode the profit making of the intellectual property pursuits by others. Trying to become a published author who can make a living from the written word in an era of free blogs, cheap news, and self-publishing that profits only those who sponsor them, is getting to be nearly impossible.
How much do you pay for your cable TV bill or your cell phone? How about gas for your car, electricity for your home? How much did your last illness cost? When was the last time your elected officials put their heads together and came up with an idea that was actually helpful for all Americans? We have virtually no space program left; the food we eat is poorly monitored, and all anyone thinks about is what is in it for him or her. What happened to neighborhood watch programs, knowing who your neighbors are and looking after the elderly in your community? Why don't we have safe sidewalks for walking, even though we have a growing obese population? Why do we try to legislate the size of soda purchases, yet allow growers to sell us genetically modified foods that are developed to create their own insecticides! Why do we spend good money after bad punishing crime instead of paying people decent wages so that parents can be home with their children more? My mother was home when I got home from school. Every day there was a fresh baked brownie, cake, or cookies waiting for me. And I wasn't fat because I walked three miles round trip to school. I learned to watch out for strangers and had exercise daily in all sorts of weather. Now I see mothers in pajamas and robes drive their kids to the bus stop? Huh? Why don't we see kids in playgrounds without their mothers keeping eagle-eyes, and what happened to not letting teachers call out grades as they returned papers? It sure made a lot of us study harder. Having your teacher say, "Tina - this is the highest grade in the class" was more motivation than anything I can think of. Consequently, the teacher who told me she had no idea what I'd drawn, made it clear that a career in art was not in my future. I then looked for those areas in which I excelled and concentrated my efforts there.
No, Sorkin through the voice of Will McAvoy is right. We are not the greatest country in the world, but we can be. We can stop being greedy and complacent and think about others for awhile. What good is leaving a healthy planet behind if the society that lives on it isn't healthy in mind, body, and spirit. It's not enough to be independent on the Fourth of July. It's not enough to be "free." We need to be responsible, and we need to strive to not sit back and wait for others to pass us by. Look in the rear view mirror. China's coming.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Sunday, July 1, 2012
And One Day It Hits You
It's six months today that I was hit with a pain that basically landed me in a fetal position, trying desperately to tell my husband to find me Tylenol, Advil, ice, the heating pad, anything that might help. The pain started in the right side of my neck as I was talking to my cousin on the phone. I'd had similar pain before. The doctor and I had pretty much agreed, though it was basically a default diagnosis, that I had a gland in that area that was causing me trouble. Lately, however, I had been having more pain and the complexion of that pain was changing. On New Year's Day of this year, I got the full brunt of it.
The pain quickly became severe, encompassed my right ear, the front of my neck all the way to the other (my left) side, my left ear, and radiated into my chest and back. My face felt hot, and my neck was bright red. I rode it out and 45 minutes later it was gone...for then. I could write a book about the progression of symptoms that kept me pretty much confined to my husband's recliner for the next two weeks until I was able to talk my doctor into a prescription for percocet which barely took the edge of the pain. Thus started a round of doctors, tests, blood work, etc with an ultimate diagnosis of Graves Disease, and lots of pain.
I'm now under the care of a Nurse Practitioner in what is considered a good Thyroid-centered practice, but I'm still not well, and I never will be. Today, as I sit and write this, I'm distracted by the discomfort right in the area of my thyroid. Pretend someone is pushing a baseball into the middle of your throat. That would come close. The last six months has been a roller coaster of medications, suggestions of radiation treatments to shrink my thyroid, surgery to remove it, more and less pain, lots of needle sticks for blood work, a pile of lab bills, a bunch of prescriptions filled. It goes on and goes on.
And one day it hits you. You aren't getting well. Graves Disease does not go away. It is never cured - not with medication, not with RAI, not with surgery. It is an autoimmune disease that will always need treatment and one that the patient (in this case, I) has to live life around. Somehow, I managed to get through the semester carrying a full load of courses online and face-to-face. I took pain killers around my class schedule; my husband drove me to and from school and carried my books to classes, while I struggled to make it the 140 feet from the car to the classroom. I often had to stop and rest on my grandfather's cane, which I took from the place I lovingly keep it as a reminder of him. His love helped me through childhood. His cane is what I lean on now.
I have more questions than answers about Graves Disease. Every forum I'm a part of gives me more information that reminds me that this disease is different from person to person. The answer for one is the problem for the next person. I do know that from here on in, I will have to live my life around this disease. There will be many canceled plans, days spent in front of the TV screen or in the hammock with a book, times my husband will have to pick up the slack with everything from laundry to errand-running.
I do complain, but my complaints are not about the disease. At my age, my mother had colon cancer, surgery, and weekly chemotherapy, followed by a strangulated intestine that almost resulted in her death from gangrene. My disease, if managed properly, is not fatal. What is difficult for me to live with is the realization that everything will be different from now on, and I have little - perhaps no - control over any of it.
Yes, one day it just hits you.
The pain quickly became severe, encompassed my right ear, the front of my neck all the way to the other (my left) side, my left ear, and radiated into my chest and back. My face felt hot, and my neck was bright red. I rode it out and 45 minutes later it was gone...for then. I could write a book about the progression of symptoms that kept me pretty much confined to my husband's recliner for the next two weeks until I was able to talk my doctor into a prescription for percocet which barely took the edge of the pain. Thus started a round of doctors, tests, blood work, etc with an ultimate diagnosis of Graves Disease, and lots of pain.
I'm now under the care of a Nurse Practitioner in what is considered a good Thyroid-centered practice, but I'm still not well, and I never will be. Today, as I sit and write this, I'm distracted by the discomfort right in the area of my thyroid. Pretend someone is pushing a baseball into the middle of your throat. That would come close. The last six months has been a roller coaster of medications, suggestions of radiation treatments to shrink my thyroid, surgery to remove it, more and less pain, lots of needle sticks for blood work, a pile of lab bills, a bunch of prescriptions filled. It goes on and goes on.
And one day it hits you. You aren't getting well. Graves Disease does not go away. It is never cured - not with medication, not with RAI, not with surgery. It is an autoimmune disease that will always need treatment and one that the patient (in this case, I) has to live life around. Somehow, I managed to get through the semester carrying a full load of courses online and face-to-face. I took pain killers around my class schedule; my husband drove me to and from school and carried my books to classes, while I struggled to make it the 140 feet from the car to the classroom. I often had to stop and rest on my grandfather's cane, which I took from the place I lovingly keep it as a reminder of him. His love helped me through childhood. His cane is what I lean on now.
I have more questions than answers about Graves Disease. Every forum I'm a part of gives me more information that reminds me that this disease is different from person to person. The answer for one is the problem for the next person. I do know that from here on in, I will have to live my life around this disease. There will be many canceled plans, days spent in front of the TV screen or in the hammock with a book, times my husband will have to pick up the slack with everything from laundry to errand-running.
I do complain, but my complaints are not about the disease. At my age, my mother had colon cancer, surgery, and weekly chemotherapy, followed by a strangulated intestine that almost resulted in her death from gangrene. My disease, if managed properly, is not fatal. What is difficult for me to live with is the realization that everything will be different from now on, and I have little - perhaps no - control over any of it.
Yes, one day it just hits you.
Wednesday, June 27, 2012
Yes, I Do Iron
Mary Schmich, in a column in today's Chicago Tribune, asks whether people still iron. According to her, an ironing board is as difficult to find as the people who use them. She claims that "rumpled is more fashionable than starched" and contends that we live in a polyester world where advanced technology in the manufacture of clothes dryers have removed the requirement to iron.
My ironing board is permanently open and set up in the basement in the laundry area. The iron and bottled water to fill its reservoir are close by, as are hangers and a hanging rod. I iron almost every day. No, I don't iron sheets, my husband's underwear, or other incidental items, and I do have my share of polyester, which is completely wrinkle-free even if you roll it in a ball, tie it up with string and bat it around with with a tennis racket.
But then there's cotton. My t-shirts are cotton; my husband's chinos are cotton; and there are some blends that still wrinkle - stubborn ugly wrinkles that resist any iron made unless you use your spray of steam copiously. Even then, you'll put that blouse on and find a wrinkled area right down the front.
I'm not a size four, tall, and gorgeous. I need my clothes to make me look as well as I can look. Yes, my t-shirt may wrinkle as I wear it, but it's a different type of wrinkle than the ones that result from sitting in the dryer or being folded on the top of the closet. Nothing makes a big person look like a slob than a wrinkled look. And call it "rumpled," if you will, but it's still wrinkled, and it's sloppy and shows you don't care.
I have seen some of my college students show up in clothes that are adorable, stylish, and look like they have been slept in for a week. By no one's standards can this possibly be considered stylish. Ironing hasn't gone out of style because we don't need to iron or because Vogue is showing wrinkled clothes in high-fashion shots. People don't iron because it takes time, and it takes skill. Many young people just can't iron.
I remember watching my mother iron back in the time of sprinkling. My mother had an old brown beer bottle that she kept filled with water and on top was a sprinkler top - something you could buy in your local hardware store. My father wore heavy white cotton pants and shorts to work and used heavy cotton aprons. Steam irons just couldn't handle this material, so my mother would lay out these items on the kitchen table and sprinkle them with her sprinkler bottle. She'd then fold and roll these items, sprinkling each new layer as it was folded. When she was done rolling, she would put the items in a plastic bag, close it tight, and store it in the refrigerator until the next day. The storage was so that the article would be uniformly damp; the refrigeration was to eliminate any mold possibilities.
The next day, the iron came out and all the dampened clothes would be ironed and hung. Some items, like my father's work pants were starched in the laundry process. At other times, my mother would use spray starch on collars and cuffs of otherwise permanent press items. In high school, I loved those large crisp collars on my blouses.
As a child, I was given handkerchiefs to iron (Yes, who uses those these days?) and other simple items like A-line skirts. It didn't take long to graduate to everything else, including puffy sleeves and box pleats. Once I started to sew, I realized how valuable the skill of ironing was. Being able to iron a dart properly made a big difference in the finished product. (Does anyone still sew?)
I iron because I care how I look, and I'm not sure that people care about that as much. We have spent so much time telling our children that they are perfect just the way they are that we have made them think that paying attention to clothes, hair, and other grooming issues is unimportant and a waste of time. Love me; love my wrinkles. I marvel at how much time some teens spend in the mall, how much money they spend on clothes, and how they then go out looking as if they dressed themselves out of the discard bin at the Salvation Army. Has pride in presentation of the self gone the way of the 45 RPM record? According to the way some of my students come to class, I think so.
You can read Schmich's column here: http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/chi-062612schmich,0,7889565.column
My ironing board is permanently open and set up in the basement in the laundry area. The iron and bottled water to fill its reservoir are close by, as are hangers and a hanging rod. I iron almost every day. No, I don't iron sheets, my husband's underwear, or other incidental items, and I do have my share of polyester, which is completely wrinkle-free even if you roll it in a ball, tie it up with string and bat it around with with a tennis racket.
But then there's cotton. My t-shirts are cotton; my husband's chinos are cotton; and there are some blends that still wrinkle - stubborn ugly wrinkles that resist any iron made unless you use your spray of steam copiously. Even then, you'll put that blouse on and find a wrinkled area right down the front.
I'm not a size four, tall, and gorgeous. I need my clothes to make me look as well as I can look. Yes, my t-shirt may wrinkle as I wear it, but it's a different type of wrinkle than the ones that result from sitting in the dryer or being folded on the top of the closet. Nothing makes a big person look like a slob than a wrinkled look. And call it "rumpled," if you will, but it's still wrinkled, and it's sloppy and shows you don't care.
I have seen some of my college students show up in clothes that are adorable, stylish, and look like they have been slept in for a week. By no one's standards can this possibly be considered stylish. Ironing hasn't gone out of style because we don't need to iron or because Vogue is showing wrinkled clothes in high-fashion shots. People don't iron because it takes time, and it takes skill. Many young people just can't iron.
I remember watching my mother iron back in the time of sprinkling. My mother had an old brown beer bottle that she kept filled with water and on top was a sprinkler top - something you could buy in your local hardware store. My father wore heavy white cotton pants and shorts to work and used heavy cotton aprons. Steam irons just couldn't handle this material, so my mother would lay out these items on the kitchen table and sprinkle them with her sprinkler bottle. She'd then fold and roll these items, sprinkling each new layer as it was folded. When she was done rolling, she would put the items in a plastic bag, close it tight, and store it in the refrigerator until the next day. The storage was so that the article would be uniformly damp; the refrigeration was to eliminate any mold possibilities.
The next day, the iron came out and all the dampened clothes would be ironed and hung. Some items, like my father's work pants were starched in the laundry process. At other times, my mother would use spray starch on collars and cuffs of otherwise permanent press items. In high school, I loved those large crisp collars on my blouses.
As a child, I was given handkerchiefs to iron (Yes, who uses those these days?) and other simple items like A-line skirts. It didn't take long to graduate to everything else, including puffy sleeves and box pleats. Once I started to sew, I realized how valuable the skill of ironing was. Being able to iron a dart properly made a big difference in the finished product. (Does anyone still sew?)
I iron because I care how I look, and I'm not sure that people care about that as much. We have spent so much time telling our children that they are perfect just the way they are that we have made them think that paying attention to clothes, hair, and other grooming issues is unimportant and a waste of time. Love me; love my wrinkles. I marvel at how much time some teens spend in the mall, how much money they spend on clothes, and how they then go out looking as if they dressed themselves out of the discard bin at the Salvation Army. Has pride in presentation of the self gone the way of the 45 RPM record? According to the way some of my students come to class, I think so.
You can read Schmich's column here: http://www.chicagotribune.com/news/local/chi-062612schmich,0,7889565.column
Friday, June 22, 2012
"Wouldn't It Be Nice"
Lately, I've been listening to songs of the 1950's and 60's on Sirius XM radio - a perk in the car I recently bought. I've come across so many one-hit wonders and short-lived performers. Songwriters housed in the Brill Building had offices near to music publishers, agents, and others who moved and shook the music world. By 1962, this building located at 1619 Broadway housed 165 music businesses. Songwriters we remember like Lieber and Stoller, Mann and Weil, Goffen and King (yes, Carole King) had offices there and produced hit after hit. Who sang these hits was of little consequence. If you could carry a tune, you could be tapped to turn one of these songs into a hit. If you were lucky, you had a successful album around that hit. A few vocal groups and teen idols (Frankie Avalon, Bobby Vee, The Platters, etc) had careers that actually spanned a few years, but pop music was pretty much a revolving door for teen-aged artists. Until...
The British Invasion hit. I remember hearing my first Beatles song on the radio. It was "I Want to Hold Your Hand, and I heard it on my mother's table top black bakelite AM radio. What was this? It was a revolutionary happy sound that made you want to get up and jump around. As a "rate-a-record" teen on American Bandstand might have said, "It has a great beat and I can dance to it." The Beatles took the U.S. music industry by storm, and in that storm came the Rolling Stones, the Animals, Kinks, Zombies, and ...well, the beat goes on. The music of the Beatles changed and grew. We changed and (maybe) grew. By the latter part of the 60's, the mantra of youth embracing the hippie idea of people power, free love, and following nature was "don't trust people over 30." Those old fogies and farts had no clue what was going on. All they knew was how to make guns and send boys over to Viet Nam to be killed. "All You Need is Love," don't you know. We were happy living in "Strawberry Fields Forever."
And we have been. An editorial cartoon on the op-ed pages of The Boston Globe shows a bubble with lyrics from the Beatles' song "Help" and two medical professionals looking down at the floor. One says to the other, "McCartney's fallen again." Yes, Paul McCartney is 70. Not only is he 70, he's still singing, and unlike some of the throwback artists who are touring today, he never stopped. Also unlike the sign hanging in the cartoon, he's not living in an assisted living facility. He's touring and entertaining and still writing songs. And we are still listening, attending concerts, and buying McCartney's music. The life span of the musical artist has now become nearly infinite. Bands like The Rolling Stones and Aerosmith sell out in minutes. So does Barry Manilow. Bon Jovi, can fill football stadiums, and Bruce Springsteen has added a second night to his appearance at Boston's Fenway Park. These artists are not just getting older, they are getting better, producing new material and still surprising us with their ability to entertain with energetic, engaging shows.
We may not have trusted anyone over 30 (which ended when WE turned 30, 40...) but out kids and their kids are listening to and enjoying these artists who made their debuts before many of our kids were born. My daughter was born in the "Mandy" era and is as big a Manilow fan as I am. We go to concerts and see multiple generations of families coming together, all smiling and singing along. Everyone knows the words. One of my most incredible and uplifting experiences was seeing 11,000 people of all ages standing up and singing "Philadelphia Freedom" at an Elton John concert a few years ago. I thought the roof was going to come off the place.
Observe, though, that these artists all share something in common - something I believe has led to their longevity. They are all songwriters. They are no longer just picked off the street to be commodified by putting their voices to something someone else wrote and conceived. They have put their hearts and souls into creating the music they deliver. So while I love the songs written by all those Brill Building writers, thank them from bringing pop music to the forefront, and enjoy re-experiencing the better parts of my youth by singing along with the 50's on 5 and 60's on 6, it's even better to tune into Rhapsody and hear the brand new album by The Beach Boys! After 50 years, three of the original members of the band have put out one of their best albums ever and selling out concerts as fast as they can book them. If you haven't yet listened to That's Why God Made the Radio, put on your flip-flops, grab a tall cold one, settle into your favorite hammock or Adirondack chair, and "turn on, tune in, and drop out" for a while.
The British Invasion hit. I remember hearing my first Beatles song on the radio. It was "I Want to Hold Your Hand, and I heard it on my mother's table top black bakelite AM radio. What was this? It was a revolutionary happy sound that made you want to get up and jump around. As a "rate-a-record" teen on American Bandstand might have said, "It has a great beat and I can dance to it." The Beatles took the U.S. music industry by storm, and in that storm came the Rolling Stones, the Animals, Kinks, Zombies, and ...well, the beat goes on. The music of the Beatles changed and grew. We changed and (maybe) grew. By the latter part of the 60's, the mantra of youth embracing the hippie idea of people power, free love, and following nature was "don't trust people over 30." Those old fogies and farts had no clue what was going on. All they knew was how to make guns and send boys over to Viet Nam to be killed. "All You Need is Love," don't you know. We were happy living in "Strawberry Fields Forever."
And we have been. An editorial cartoon on the op-ed pages of The Boston Globe shows a bubble with lyrics from the Beatles' song "Help" and two medical professionals looking down at the floor. One says to the other, "McCartney's fallen again." Yes, Paul McCartney is 70. Not only is he 70, he's still singing, and unlike some of the throwback artists who are touring today, he never stopped. Also unlike the sign hanging in the cartoon, he's not living in an assisted living facility. He's touring and entertaining and still writing songs. And we are still listening, attending concerts, and buying McCartney's music. The life span of the musical artist has now become nearly infinite. Bands like The Rolling Stones and Aerosmith sell out in minutes. So does Barry Manilow. Bon Jovi, can fill football stadiums, and Bruce Springsteen has added a second night to his appearance at Boston's Fenway Park. These artists are not just getting older, they are getting better, producing new material and still surprising us with their ability to entertain with energetic, engaging shows.
We may not have trusted anyone over 30 (which ended when WE turned 30, 40...) but out kids and their kids are listening to and enjoying these artists who made their debuts before many of our kids were born. My daughter was born in the "Mandy" era and is as big a Manilow fan as I am. We go to concerts and see multiple generations of families coming together, all smiling and singing along. Everyone knows the words. One of my most incredible and uplifting experiences was seeing 11,000 people of all ages standing up and singing "Philadelphia Freedom" at an Elton John concert a few years ago. I thought the roof was going to come off the place.
Observe, though, that these artists all share something in common - something I believe has led to their longevity. They are all songwriters. They are no longer just picked off the street to be commodified by putting their voices to something someone else wrote and conceived. They have put their hearts and souls into creating the music they deliver. So while I love the songs written by all those Brill Building writers, thank them from bringing pop music to the forefront, and enjoy re-experiencing the better parts of my youth by singing along with the 50's on 5 and 60's on 6, it's even better to tune into Rhapsody and hear the brand new album by The Beach Boys! After 50 years, three of the original members of the band have put out one of their best albums ever and selling out concerts as fast as they can book them. If you haven't yet listened to That's Why God Made the Radio, put on your flip-flops, grab a tall cold one, settle into your favorite hammock or Adirondack chair, and "turn on, tune in, and drop out" for a while.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Stay Away from My Soda!
According to a story by Fox 25, Boston, the mayor of Cambridge MA would like to restrict the size of sodas that can be sold in restaurants. No, I didn't read much further than this. I thought it was ludicrous when New York City Mayor Bloomberg proposed a similar restriction on patrons buying soft drinks at restaurants, arenas, and other public venues. Now the mayor of Cambridge MA is jumping on the band wagon of making people healthy by imposing more "nanny" legislation.
Are too many Americans obese? Do we often eat the wrong foods in the wrong quantities? Of course we do, but the answer lies someplace other than restricting adults from buying soft drinks in certain size containers. If people want to drown themselves in sodas, iced teas, or other high calorie drinks, limiting the portion size isn't going to stop them. Unless you restrict the sale of these beverages altogether, people will go back for more or ask for seconds. I'm sure restaurants will be glad to refill your cola beverage to keep you as a customer. Or will the soft drink police be there to slap the cuffs on some miscreant waitress.
And how do you measure a soft drink anyway? Do you measure it with ice or without. That can make a big difference. While many restaurants serve a soft drink in a 20-ounce glass, the actual measure of soda may be only 1/3 that.
To me there are several issues that the introduction of stupid legislation brings up. The first is what's next? Where does nanny legislation stop? Will burger size be monitored? How about how many fries can be put in a serving? How about the 5-cheese omelet I order at my local breakfast restaurant? I'm sure that the breakfast special of eggs, meats, pancakes, and toast, served with syrup and butter can pack on more pounds than a soda. Will restaurants be restricted to 500 calorie meals? What about supermarkets? Will the 12-pack fridge pack be banned? Maybe I'll need to buy my favorite beverage in single serving cans - one to a customer. And what will happen to the sale of candy bars? We allow people over age 18 to buy as many cigarettes as they want and those over 21 to buy as many bottles of alcohol as they can carry, but we think that restricting the size of sugar-laden beverages is a smart idea.
The second issue is one of personal freedom. Believe it or not, we do have the right to kill ourselves in the U.S. We are allowed to smoke and drink. We sell cars that can go much faster than roads in this country allow. We allow people to bicycle down busy roadways, text while walking, bungee jump, breathe in carbon monoxide as they (healthfully) jog down the sides of busy roads, skip year physicals because they can't afford the doctor or insurance, sleep outside because they can't afford shelter, and do all sorts of crazy things that can result in injury and death. We even pay athletes big money to get out there on the football field and slam into each other - an activity that has been shown to result in the long term after-effects of concussion. In New Hampshire, we do not even require adults to wear motorcycle helmets. You are free to be a vegetable for the rest of your life in order to feel the wind in your hair. But people need to have their soft drinks limited. Go figure.
Another issue is the one concerning sugar substitutes. It is my understanding that legislation proposed by the mayor of Cambridge does not pertain to items sweetened with sugar substitutes. Scientists have argued the issues of non-nutritive sweeteners since saccharin was introduced. The issues surrounding many sugar substitutes range from cancer to migraine headaches to diarrhea. We have an entire generation that has grown up on sugar substitutes. (Could there be a connection with issues such as autism there I wonder?) We're fed information that leads us to believe that these items are natural, harmless, and actually good for us, but the latest studies suggest that the use of certain artificial sweeteners can actually elevate our desire for sweets. Now I'm not a fan of high-fructose corn syrup either, as it is largely made from genetically modified corn, so if I'm going to drink a soda, it contains 100% sugar. It appears that lawmakers have no problem filling children and adults with chemicals, but sugar is a problem.
Let's face it; there's more going on regarding obesity in America than soda sizes. Often households with children have only one parent or two parents both working, so there is more processed food being served. Organic and healthy food is more expensive than the cheaper prepared food choices. You can feed a whole family on a can of ravioli and bread and butter on much less cost (and time) than a chef salad prepared at home with organic veggies and leans meats and cheeses. People don't walk. Frankly, there is nowhere to walk in many cases unless you drive to the local health club and pay for a membership. On my street, a pedestrian takes a chance on losing his / her life. Sidewalks are available only in the the very hearts of communities (and not all of them), and we have discouraged children from walking by filling them and ourselves) with the fear of predators lurking around every corner. Bicycling is worse. With people texting, eating, and putting on make-up as they drive, even those who aren't impaired are often a menace to bicyclists. Roads are narrow and trying to get around a bicyclist with traffic in both lanes can be a challenge even for the most careful driver.
We are a fat society because our entire lifestyle has changed. We work longer; we sit more (working behind computers); we walk less, we have less recreation time (when was the last time you played a game of anything?); we eat on the run; we eat what's quick and handy. That's why we are unhealthy. If the government would like to make us healthier, they can 1) put physical education and active recess back in schools, 2) provide paved sidewalks and designated bicycle trails, 3) make provisions for health insurance rebates for exercise classes, or workout hours, 4) create better opportunities for people to buy wholesome natural and organic products close to home, 5) provide incentives for companies whose employees have sit-down jobs to provide on-site workout rooms that can be used before and after work, as well as during lunch and breaks, and 6) provide income tax credits for people who remain in normal weight ranges as determined by their doctors. Then you'd see some real results. In the meantime, hand me that two-liter soda on the top shelf....
Are too many Americans obese? Do we often eat the wrong foods in the wrong quantities? Of course we do, but the answer lies someplace other than restricting adults from buying soft drinks in certain size containers. If people want to drown themselves in sodas, iced teas, or other high calorie drinks, limiting the portion size isn't going to stop them. Unless you restrict the sale of these beverages altogether, people will go back for more or ask for seconds. I'm sure restaurants will be glad to refill your cola beverage to keep you as a customer. Or will the soft drink police be there to slap the cuffs on some miscreant waitress.
And how do you measure a soft drink anyway? Do you measure it with ice or without. That can make a big difference. While many restaurants serve a soft drink in a 20-ounce glass, the actual measure of soda may be only 1/3 that.
To me there are several issues that the introduction of stupid legislation brings up. The first is what's next? Where does nanny legislation stop? Will burger size be monitored? How about how many fries can be put in a serving? How about the 5-cheese omelet I order at my local breakfast restaurant? I'm sure that the breakfast special of eggs, meats, pancakes, and toast, served with syrup and butter can pack on more pounds than a soda. Will restaurants be restricted to 500 calorie meals? What about supermarkets? Will the 12-pack fridge pack be banned? Maybe I'll need to buy my favorite beverage in single serving cans - one to a customer. And what will happen to the sale of candy bars? We allow people over age 18 to buy as many cigarettes as they want and those over 21 to buy as many bottles of alcohol as they can carry, but we think that restricting the size of sugar-laden beverages is a smart idea.
The second issue is one of personal freedom. Believe it or not, we do have the right to kill ourselves in the U.S. We are allowed to smoke and drink. We sell cars that can go much faster than roads in this country allow. We allow people to bicycle down busy roadways, text while walking, bungee jump, breathe in carbon monoxide as they (healthfully) jog down the sides of busy roads, skip year physicals because they can't afford the doctor or insurance, sleep outside because they can't afford shelter, and do all sorts of crazy things that can result in injury and death. We even pay athletes big money to get out there on the football field and slam into each other - an activity that has been shown to result in the long term after-effects of concussion. In New Hampshire, we do not even require adults to wear motorcycle helmets. You are free to be a vegetable for the rest of your life in order to feel the wind in your hair. But people need to have their soft drinks limited. Go figure.
Another issue is the one concerning sugar substitutes. It is my understanding that legislation proposed by the mayor of Cambridge does not pertain to items sweetened with sugar substitutes. Scientists have argued the issues of non-nutritive sweeteners since saccharin was introduced. The issues surrounding many sugar substitutes range from cancer to migraine headaches to diarrhea. We have an entire generation that has grown up on sugar substitutes. (Could there be a connection with issues such as autism there I wonder?) We're fed information that leads us to believe that these items are natural, harmless, and actually good for us, but the latest studies suggest that the use of certain artificial sweeteners can actually elevate our desire for sweets. Now I'm not a fan of high-fructose corn syrup either, as it is largely made from genetically modified corn, so if I'm going to drink a soda, it contains 100% sugar. It appears that lawmakers have no problem filling children and adults with chemicals, but sugar is a problem.
Let's face it; there's more going on regarding obesity in America than soda sizes. Often households with children have only one parent or two parents both working, so there is more processed food being served. Organic and healthy food is more expensive than the cheaper prepared food choices. You can feed a whole family on a can of ravioli and bread and butter on much less cost (and time) than a chef salad prepared at home with organic veggies and leans meats and cheeses. People don't walk. Frankly, there is nowhere to walk in many cases unless you drive to the local health club and pay for a membership. On my street, a pedestrian takes a chance on losing his / her life. Sidewalks are available only in the the very hearts of communities (and not all of them), and we have discouraged children from walking by filling them and ourselves) with the fear of predators lurking around every corner. Bicycling is worse. With people texting, eating, and putting on make-up as they drive, even those who aren't impaired are often a menace to bicyclists. Roads are narrow and trying to get around a bicyclist with traffic in both lanes can be a challenge even for the most careful driver.
We are a fat society because our entire lifestyle has changed. We work longer; we sit more (working behind computers); we walk less, we have less recreation time (when was the last time you played a game of anything?); we eat on the run; we eat what's quick and handy. That's why we are unhealthy. If the government would like to make us healthier, they can 1) put physical education and active recess back in schools, 2) provide paved sidewalks and designated bicycle trails, 3) make provisions for health insurance rebates for exercise classes, or workout hours, 4) create better opportunities for people to buy wholesome natural and organic products close to home, 5) provide incentives for companies whose employees have sit-down jobs to provide on-site workout rooms that can be used before and after work, as well as during lunch and breaks, and 6) provide income tax credits for people who remain in normal weight ranges as determined by their doctors. Then you'd see some real results. In the meantime, hand me that two-liter soda on the top shelf....
Monday, June 18, 2012
Nuts to You.
We all know that nut allergies are on the rise, and I feel truly sorry for children who have to learn at a very young age that food is not all pleasure. Certain foods can make you very sick or even kill you. I saw my friend's daughter grow up with allergies that often landed her in the hospital. She quickly learned to live with it and look out for her own welfare because she had to. While people in whose care she was entrusted knew of her food allergies, ultimately the responsibility for keeping her safe rested with her parents and eventually with her.
It appears that things have changed. Not only do we need an entire "village to raise a child," we expect the entire community to change the way it functions to protect the child. In this particular case, the danger is nuts, and the medium for this message is the front page of the June 17, 2012, Sunday Eagle Tribune (Lawrence MA) in a story entitled "Parents: Schools Aren't Protecting Allergic Son from Nuts." In short, a nine year-old fourth grader has found himself hospitalized seven times due to a severe reactions to nuts, which his parents say he was exposed to in school.
The parents stated that the school has complied with the provisions of the federal Rehabilitation Act of 1973 for those with disabilities. Among those disabilities are food allergies, and the parents were told that their child's classroom would be "nut-free." The parents claim that on two different instances teaches themselves brought in contaminated foods and that at one other time, a classmate brought in a nut-containing food and when the nut-allergic child brought the item to the teacher, the teacher allegedly told the child that he (the child) was not be act like the "nut police." While the parents may have a legitimate complaint about the three reported instances as they did occur in the classroom itself, the article states that the child had seven trips to the hospital and often the allergic reaction does not show up for twelve hours after exposure.
I believe schools need to keep children safe: from bullies, from predatory teachers, from sun-stroke on the athletic field, and (most importantly) poor education. I also believe that since there are Federal Disabilities Acts in place, schools need to abide by them. But here is a child who appears to be so allergic to nuts that nut residue on a person's clothing could set off a reaction, and that nut residue can be carried into the classroom unknowingly. I also must assume that this child is not confined to the classroom during every moment of the school day. He may come in contact with other teachers, students, and surfaces. How accountable can we hold a school community and how many people's lives do we disrupt because of one child? My understanding as a post-secondary educator is that "reasonable accommodations" are what is expected of a school or teacher in the event of a disability.
Teachers are only human, and with budget cuts in almost all communities, public school classrooms are busy places where the teacher's attention is fragmented by his/her need to meet the needs of each student under the "No Child Left Behind" statutes. Expecting a teacher to make sure that no child brings in a cookie with nuts (or processed in a facility that processes nuts) is a near impossibility. Kids break rules. If you tell a child, this is a nut-free zone, that child may either forget or disregard that rule. Most children have not seen a person in extreme respiratory distress. We shield our children from those realities - and maybe to their detriment - the the idea of someone being severely allergic to nuts is something most young children just don't get.
It appears from the article itself that the school system is doing the best it can to help this boy deal with his individual and particular health issue, but the responsibility is with the parents. Perhaps it is time for them to explore home-schooling or tutoring that will keep the child in his own protective atmosphere and where the parents can more closely monitor his exposure until such time as he can take more responsibility for monitoring his own. I'm sure that parents would have many reasons for why their child should be treated as a normal child in a normal social atmosphere. But, face it, this child, given this extreme allergy to nuts, will never be able to do that. There will always be accommodations that will need to be made for him as long as he is in a place where governmental laws apply. But he will not always be in that type of place.
This child will have difficulty going to ball games, participating in camping trips, scouting, lunches with friends, etc. His parents need to teach him how to keep himself as safe as possible, what do to when he is exposed and has a reaction, and how to advocate for himself in the future. Until then, he is their responsibility and not the school's. It is not "reasonable" to expect teachers, students, and administrators to police themselves each and every day and to feel totally responsible for this child's welfare.
It appears that things have changed. Not only do we need an entire "village to raise a child," we expect the entire community to change the way it functions to protect the child. In this particular case, the danger is nuts, and the medium for this message is the front page of the June 17, 2012, Sunday Eagle Tribune (Lawrence MA) in a story entitled "Parents: Schools Aren't Protecting Allergic Son from Nuts." In short, a nine year-old fourth grader has found himself hospitalized seven times due to a severe reactions to nuts, which his parents say he was exposed to in school.
The parents stated that the school has complied with the provisions of the federal Rehabilitation Act of 1973 for those with disabilities. Among those disabilities are food allergies, and the parents were told that their child's classroom would be "nut-free." The parents claim that on two different instances teaches themselves brought in contaminated foods and that at one other time, a classmate brought in a nut-containing food and when the nut-allergic child brought the item to the teacher, the teacher allegedly told the child that he (the child) was not be act like the "nut police." While the parents may have a legitimate complaint about the three reported instances as they did occur in the classroom itself, the article states that the child had seven trips to the hospital and often the allergic reaction does not show up for twelve hours after exposure.
I believe schools need to keep children safe: from bullies, from predatory teachers, from sun-stroke on the athletic field, and (most importantly) poor education. I also believe that since there are Federal Disabilities Acts in place, schools need to abide by them. But here is a child who appears to be so allergic to nuts that nut residue on a person's clothing could set off a reaction, and that nut residue can be carried into the classroom unknowingly. I also must assume that this child is not confined to the classroom during every moment of the school day. He may come in contact with other teachers, students, and surfaces. How accountable can we hold a school community and how many people's lives do we disrupt because of one child? My understanding as a post-secondary educator is that "reasonable accommodations" are what is expected of a school or teacher in the event of a disability.
Teachers are only human, and with budget cuts in almost all communities, public school classrooms are busy places where the teacher's attention is fragmented by his/her need to meet the needs of each student under the "No Child Left Behind" statutes. Expecting a teacher to make sure that no child brings in a cookie with nuts (or processed in a facility that processes nuts) is a near impossibility. Kids break rules. If you tell a child, this is a nut-free zone, that child may either forget or disregard that rule. Most children have not seen a person in extreme respiratory distress. We shield our children from those realities - and maybe to their detriment - the the idea of someone being severely allergic to nuts is something most young children just don't get.
It appears from the article itself that the school system is doing the best it can to help this boy deal with his individual and particular health issue, but the responsibility is with the parents. Perhaps it is time for them to explore home-schooling or tutoring that will keep the child in his own protective atmosphere and where the parents can more closely monitor his exposure until such time as he can take more responsibility for monitoring his own. I'm sure that parents would have many reasons for why their child should be treated as a normal child in a normal social atmosphere. But, face it, this child, given this extreme allergy to nuts, will never be able to do that. There will always be accommodations that will need to be made for him as long as he is in a place where governmental laws apply. But he will not always be in that type of place.
This child will have difficulty going to ball games, participating in camping trips, scouting, lunches with friends, etc. His parents need to teach him how to keep himself as safe as possible, what do to when he is exposed and has a reaction, and how to advocate for himself in the future. Until then, he is their responsibility and not the school's. It is not "reasonable" to expect teachers, students, and administrators to police themselves each and every day and to feel totally responsible for this child's welfare.
Sunday, June 17, 2012
Where Have All The Fathers Gone?
It's Fathers Day - a day that holds a very different meaning for many of us than it did in the past. For those of us in the Boomer generation, many of us have lost our fathers. They have either passed away or are feeble of body and / or mind. Now, celebrating Fathers Day centers on our husbands or others in our lives who have become fathers. Despite that, for us there is a hole where a father should be.
My father, died on July 7, 1996 at the age of 81 which was the age at which his own father died. While my Grandfather Vincent died suddenly after having been hit by a car; my father died after having broken a hip and an 8-day hospital stay during which nothing could be done but discuss how quickly he could be moved from ICU into a nursing home. Since that was not an option he wished to explore, he basically shut his eyes, drifted into a coma, and let death take him. It was a kind death after an unkind life.
My father and I never had a close relationship. He was not a snuggle buddy or game companion. He didn't enjoy our television watching, and he hated whatever music I listened to. He was a tightwad and didn't tolerate finicky appetites. He didn't believe in fads, and, instead, was willing (although sometimes begrudgingly) to invest in things that would last. For a teen-ager of the 1960's, buying a skirt that would last 20 years was not a top priority for me. I'd have rather had the cheap item in one of the many discount department stores and thrown it out when the next fad hit. We never went out to eat, didn't waste food, and were constantly reminded of all our father did for us. For a number of years, I shared a room (and bed) with my 8-year younger sister (which proved to be the start of yet another rocky relationship) until my mother talked my father into letting me sleep on the hide-a-bed in the den. The den then became my bedroom, so, in a real sense, I didn't have a place of my own at all.
My father was all about education, and I had no trouble getting him to pay for and transport me to private German, elocution, singing, and piano lessons. However, that, too, came with a price. Anything below an A was a punishable offense, and piano lessons came with a minimum 3-hour practice session daily (along with an additional hour of voice practice.) Nothing less than a fever of 104 would excuse me from this requirement which included my birthday and all major holidays. My father worked a shift that brought him home by 2:30PM, so he would check the clock to see what time I went in to practice. That didn't bother me as much as the fact that he always tacked on extra time. If I went in at 3PM and finished at 6PM, he would march me back and tell me I had cheated him of 15 minutes. It was maddening for me, but if I complained, he'd tack on more time.
At 17, I quit piano lessons and my father gave the Steinway Grand that had been my 16th birthday gift to my sister. At 18, I went away to college for a year, but returned home to commute because my father insisted that I was just too far away. At 20, I packed everything else in. I'd had enough. I turned in my car keys, packed only the few things I was allowed to take, moved out of the house and was married less than six weeks later to someone I'd met less than six months previously - my husband now of 42 years.
My father, in an effort, to provide a better life for his daughters than he had had, just pushed too much. He'd spent the entire period of World War II as a Polish prisoner of war and had been housed in various camps through the Nazi occupied area. An American citizen by birth, he found his way back to this country where he quickly found a job in the woolen mills of Lawrence, MA, and married my mother, a first generation Polish-American who had served as a nurse in the Pacific during WWII.
The discipline he brought into his father-daughter relationship was too strict, and I soon saw him as a tyrannical and emotionally abusive individual. I still do. But now, I understand why he was so. He never talked about his life during the war years; we never knew that he was a closet alcoholic (until my sister went off to college) who made my mother's life miserable. During his last years, he deteriorated from alcoholism, rheumatoid arthritis, and such severe bone loss that he lost nearly a foot in height and became barrel chested - his skeleton pressing on and moving his vital organs about. But it was during his last year that I found the father that was inside this man - the father who'd never made himself available to me.
I hadn't spoken to my father for several years, but I ran into my mother at her sister's funeral, and she asked - basically begged - me to come and see him. The next day, I did. For that year, we spent each holiday together. I left my then grown children and husband to fend for themselves while I spent as much time with my father as I could. Now unable to care for himself and to buy, hide, and drink Scotch, he turned to conversation and showed, for once, a sincere interest in me as a person. He was proud I had gone back to college and that I had received my degree summa cum laude two months before he died. I was headed to grad school in the fall. I think we forgave each other many things during that time, and I came to realize that it was not that he didn't love me, but that he didn't know how.
I have recently found that many Jewish people who survived the Holocaust never even told their children they were there. The experience is one that was so horrific that it changed much of the internal mechanism of those people who (barely) made it through alive. Just because my father was a Polish Catholic U.S. citizen doesn't make his story much sweeter, I'm sure.
I would not trade that year of my life with my father for anything. Fathers Day is bittersweet for me now, as I see my son and my husband in the same situation for different reasons. My son doesn't speak to his father, has no respect for him, and has shut him out of his life. I see the intense pain it has caused my husband - a pain his loving daughter cannot erase, no matter how hard she tries to. I hope some day, my son will too discover just how much his father loved him. I also hope he doesn't wait until his father's last year to find out.
My father, died on July 7, 1996 at the age of 81 which was the age at which his own father died. While my Grandfather Vincent died suddenly after having been hit by a car; my father died after having broken a hip and an 8-day hospital stay during which nothing could be done but discuss how quickly he could be moved from ICU into a nursing home. Since that was not an option he wished to explore, he basically shut his eyes, drifted into a coma, and let death take him. It was a kind death after an unkind life.
My father and I never had a close relationship. He was not a snuggle buddy or game companion. He didn't enjoy our television watching, and he hated whatever music I listened to. He was a tightwad and didn't tolerate finicky appetites. He didn't believe in fads, and, instead, was willing (although sometimes begrudgingly) to invest in things that would last. For a teen-ager of the 1960's, buying a skirt that would last 20 years was not a top priority for me. I'd have rather had the cheap item in one of the many discount department stores and thrown it out when the next fad hit. We never went out to eat, didn't waste food, and were constantly reminded of all our father did for us. For a number of years, I shared a room (and bed) with my 8-year younger sister (which proved to be the start of yet another rocky relationship) until my mother talked my father into letting me sleep on the hide-a-bed in the den. The den then became my bedroom, so, in a real sense, I didn't have a place of my own at all.
My father was all about education, and I had no trouble getting him to pay for and transport me to private German, elocution, singing, and piano lessons. However, that, too, came with a price. Anything below an A was a punishable offense, and piano lessons came with a minimum 3-hour practice session daily (along with an additional hour of voice practice.) Nothing less than a fever of 104 would excuse me from this requirement which included my birthday and all major holidays. My father worked a shift that brought him home by 2:30PM, so he would check the clock to see what time I went in to practice. That didn't bother me as much as the fact that he always tacked on extra time. If I went in at 3PM and finished at 6PM, he would march me back and tell me I had cheated him of 15 minutes. It was maddening for me, but if I complained, he'd tack on more time.
At 17, I quit piano lessons and my father gave the Steinway Grand that had been my 16th birthday gift to my sister. At 18, I went away to college for a year, but returned home to commute because my father insisted that I was just too far away. At 20, I packed everything else in. I'd had enough. I turned in my car keys, packed only the few things I was allowed to take, moved out of the house and was married less than six weeks later to someone I'd met less than six months previously - my husband now of 42 years.
My father, in an effort, to provide a better life for his daughters than he had had, just pushed too much. He'd spent the entire period of World War II as a Polish prisoner of war and had been housed in various camps through the Nazi occupied area. An American citizen by birth, he found his way back to this country where he quickly found a job in the woolen mills of Lawrence, MA, and married my mother, a first generation Polish-American who had served as a nurse in the Pacific during WWII.
The discipline he brought into his father-daughter relationship was too strict, and I soon saw him as a tyrannical and emotionally abusive individual. I still do. But now, I understand why he was so. He never talked about his life during the war years; we never knew that he was a closet alcoholic (until my sister went off to college) who made my mother's life miserable. During his last years, he deteriorated from alcoholism, rheumatoid arthritis, and such severe bone loss that he lost nearly a foot in height and became barrel chested - his skeleton pressing on and moving his vital organs about. But it was during his last year that I found the father that was inside this man - the father who'd never made himself available to me.
I hadn't spoken to my father for several years, but I ran into my mother at her sister's funeral, and she asked - basically begged - me to come and see him. The next day, I did. For that year, we spent each holiday together. I left my then grown children and husband to fend for themselves while I spent as much time with my father as I could. Now unable to care for himself and to buy, hide, and drink Scotch, he turned to conversation and showed, for once, a sincere interest in me as a person. He was proud I had gone back to college and that I had received my degree summa cum laude two months before he died. I was headed to grad school in the fall. I think we forgave each other many things during that time, and I came to realize that it was not that he didn't love me, but that he didn't know how.
I have recently found that many Jewish people who survived the Holocaust never even told their children they were there. The experience is one that was so horrific that it changed much of the internal mechanism of those people who (barely) made it through alive. Just because my father was a Polish Catholic U.S. citizen doesn't make his story much sweeter, I'm sure.
I would not trade that year of my life with my father for anything. Fathers Day is bittersweet for me now, as I see my son and my husband in the same situation for different reasons. My son doesn't speak to his father, has no respect for him, and has shut him out of his life. I see the intense pain it has caused my husband - a pain his loving daughter cannot erase, no matter how hard she tries to. I hope some day, my son will too discover just how much his father loved him. I also hope he doesn't wait until his father's last year to find out.
Sunday, May 27, 2012
A Single Lady
Yesterday I read an essay by Kate Bolick which was entitled "All the Single Ladies." It had originally been published in The Atlantic, and it caught my eye because even though I have been married for 42 years, my daughter is "a single lady" at age 38. This has been a bit of a sore spot in an otherwise strong (at least I think) mother-daughter relationship. Her single status has caused me angst and frustration, though she seems to be quite content and tells me that she enjoys her single life.
Ms Bolick is a single lady about the age of my daughter who is not quite as content about her single status, always assuming it would be temporary until she found the right man. But Bolick's curiosity got the better of her it seems, and she sought to do some research on single women and why there seems to be so many of them these days. Her exhaustive article references many books, personal conversations, statistics, and personal experiences that provided me with the tools I needed to understand my daughter's point of view.
It appears that the age in which I grew up was part of only a relatively short period when the nuclear family and marriage were considered to be the cornerstone of American society (if not that of the civilized world). We watched television shows such as "Leave it to Beaver," "Father Knows Best," and "The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet" where two parents and several fairly well-behaved and lovable children shared a household where, despite a few bumps in the road of life, everything worked out in the end. Even in "My Three Sons" and "Bachelor Father" in which a child /children were brought up without the traditional mother/father team, a mother-type figure was introduced to take her place. And "Bachelor Father" soon added a step-mom to round out the family.
Much has changed in our society since these days of sanitized television representations of the family. The women's movement changed it all. In many segments of our society, Bolick points out, men are now the minority. These area include the workforce and college, and where the gender majority shift changes, sexual politics change as well. Bolick goes into a lot of detail and explains it well, so please access her article if you wish. I'll add the link below.
I realized that my daughter is one of many women who may live a single life and do so quite happily and that my angst over her being "alone" and my frustration that there will be no grandchildren to buy cute little clothes for or take to the movies is a product of the times in which I grew up. In other words, it's my problem, not hers. In the 50's and 60's, it was assumed and expected that you would get married, have children, have grandchildren, retire comfortably, perhaps travel, and pleasantly die in your bed while sleeping. It wasn't quite a fairy tale, but it may well have been.
Looking back at the 50's, I notice that in all of these family television shows, Father didn't always know best. Mother basically solved the problems, letting father think he had done so. Mother was a walking painting of perfection in her shirtwaist dress, heels, and jewelry, while keeping the house perfectly spotless in her equally spotless apron. She was the magician who protected the family from the cruel realities of dirty toilets and bug infestations.
My mother was like that. She may have worn capri pants instead of a skirt and sneakers instead of heels, but she kept the wheels of the homestead turning. In truth, she dealt with a domineering husband, the isolation of not driving, a dependence on prescription medications, my father's alcoholism, and panic disorder. She pushed me and my sister to become strong independent women, probably because deep down she knew she could have been (She had served in the Army during WWII as a nurse) but gave it up to live the "American Dream" of marriage, home, and children. She spent years taking care of my father who suffered from Rheumatoid Arthritis and for her hard work and dedication to husband and family, she was rewarded with a ten-year decline with Alzheimer's Disease before she died.
For me, full independence and the single life were still considered to be for those women who could "find" a husband. I was encouraged to get an education, but most of the girls in my all-girls college were husband hunting. They saw their job as the "woman behind the man." Most of them married; many worked. Those whose marriages didn't last felt and probably still feel like failures.
My daughter has escaped that. She lives in a world where marriage and children are choices, and a woman who chooses to live alone is not considered a spinster who has something wrong with her. While women still do not make dollar for dollar what men earn in the job market, women are moving into all aspects of the job market, so this too will change. The professional woman, the woman who is "boss" is not longer the anomaly. And slowly, women are moving further and further into the political arena where their voices will make the biggest impact.
So while I still worry that my daughter will be "alone" in her old age, I realize that most of us are. She has a career, is financially stable, and has a lovely group of friends who care about her. And while I miss not having those grandchildren I dreamed about for decades, I do have some demanding, yet adorable, cats, and there are plenty more out there looking for some love and attention.
The world changes. It doesn't belong to us alone.
http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/11/all-the-single-ladies/8654/5/
Ms Bolick is a single lady about the age of my daughter who is not quite as content about her single status, always assuming it would be temporary until she found the right man. But Bolick's curiosity got the better of her it seems, and she sought to do some research on single women and why there seems to be so many of them these days. Her exhaustive article references many books, personal conversations, statistics, and personal experiences that provided me with the tools I needed to understand my daughter's point of view.
It appears that the age in which I grew up was part of only a relatively short period when the nuclear family and marriage were considered to be the cornerstone of American society (if not that of the civilized world). We watched television shows such as "Leave it to Beaver," "Father Knows Best," and "The Adventures of Ozzie and Harriet" where two parents and several fairly well-behaved and lovable children shared a household where, despite a few bumps in the road of life, everything worked out in the end. Even in "My Three Sons" and "Bachelor Father" in which a child /children were brought up without the traditional mother/father team, a mother-type figure was introduced to take her place. And "Bachelor Father" soon added a step-mom to round out the family.
Much has changed in our society since these days of sanitized television representations of the family. The women's movement changed it all. In many segments of our society, Bolick points out, men are now the minority. These area include the workforce and college, and where the gender majority shift changes, sexual politics change as well. Bolick goes into a lot of detail and explains it well, so please access her article if you wish. I'll add the link below.
I realized that my daughter is one of many women who may live a single life and do so quite happily and that my angst over her being "alone" and my frustration that there will be no grandchildren to buy cute little clothes for or take to the movies is a product of the times in which I grew up. In other words, it's my problem, not hers. In the 50's and 60's, it was assumed and expected that you would get married, have children, have grandchildren, retire comfortably, perhaps travel, and pleasantly die in your bed while sleeping. It wasn't quite a fairy tale, but it may well have been.
Looking back at the 50's, I notice that in all of these family television shows, Father didn't always know best. Mother basically solved the problems, letting father think he had done so. Mother was a walking painting of perfection in her shirtwaist dress, heels, and jewelry, while keeping the house perfectly spotless in her equally spotless apron. She was the magician who protected the family from the cruel realities of dirty toilets and bug infestations.
My mother was like that. She may have worn capri pants instead of a skirt and sneakers instead of heels, but she kept the wheels of the homestead turning. In truth, she dealt with a domineering husband, the isolation of not driving, a dependence on prescription medications, my father's alcoholism, and panic disorder. She pushed me and my sister to become strong independent women, probably because deep down she knew she could have been (She had served in the Army during WWII as a nurse) but gave it up to live the "American Dream" of marriage, home, and children. She spent years taking care of my father who suffered from Rheumatoid Arthritis and for her hard work and dedication to husband and family, she was rewarded with a ten-year decline with Alzheimer's Disease before she died.
For me, full independence and the single life were still considered to be for those women who could "find" a husband. I was encouraged to get an education, but most of the girls in my all-girls college were husband hunting. They saw their job as the "woman behind the man." Most of them married; many worked. Those whose marriages didn't last felt and probably still feel like failures.
My daughter has escaped that. She lives in a world where marriage and children are choices, and a woman who chooses to live alone is not considered a spinster who has something wrong with her. While women still do not make dollar for dollar what men earn in the job market, women are moving into all aspects of the job market, so this too will change. The professional woman, the woman who is "boss" is not longer the anomaly. And slowly, women are moving further and further into the political arena where their voices will make the biggest impact.
So while I still worry that my daughter will be "alone" in her old age, I realize that most of us are. She has a career, is financially stable, and has a lovely group of friends who care about her. And while I miss not having those grandchildren I dreamed about for decades, I do have some demanding, yet adorable, cats, and there are plenty more out there looking for some love and attention.
The world changes. It doesn't belong to us alone.
http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/11/all-the-single-ladies/8654/5/
Saturday, May 26, 2012
Memorial Day: How Different It Has Become
As a child going to school, Memorial Day meant three more weeks of school before the freedom of summer vacation and the freedom it brought to spend my time doing things I wanted rather than things I was required to do. In the last decade or two, Memorial Day weekend (and, of course, now it is a weekend) is much more somber than it used to be. Each year, more and more of the people I know have left us, and I find myself to be the matriarch of my family.
I never knew my grandmothers. One died in Poland during WWII; the other died here just before WWII and I grew up visiting her grave with my mother. I lost my first grandfather at 16 and my second and most beloved grandfather ten days before my 18th birthday. There were some great aunts and uncles left - most of them I knew only barely (We were not a close knit Polish family), but for me, the oldest generation was gone.
The second generation started to pass on when I was 24 and expecting my first child. My uncle died of a heart attack at the age of 52. Every few years after that, another relative would leave this earth. Death and dying is part of everyone's family. When my children were 8 and 5, we lost my father-in-law to cancer. Losing the first parent is always hard. It propels you into a different world of responsibility. We realized that with him gone, my mother-in-law would have only us (My husband was her only child), and as she had few friends and didn't drive, we soon realized that the only way to properly look after her was to move her into our home, where she stayed for the next 22 years.
My husband and I have now been married 42 years and the last of our relatives from the generation above us passed away in December. She was a cousin of my father's whose daughter is approximately seven hours younger than I am. Now, the generation above my husband and I is gone in our families. Parents, uncles, aunts, and cousins of that generation have all bid farewell to their families and their lives. Some have left generations to follow. Others have not. They are the ends of their respective lines.
As my husband and I go around to grave sites tomorrow, we will be sadly reminded that we are the next generation departing. We have already lost classmates and friends - all too young in this day and age of advanced medical care and early diagnosis. We open the obituary page of our local newspaper gingerly each day wondering which familiar name we will see next. As with more and more people of our generation, we see the end of the line. While we have two children, we have no grandchildren, and we see none in the future. We are starting to think we need to make some arrangements for family pictures, documents, and meaningful items, so that they don't end up in a landfill or yard sale somewhere.
The world is changing. Big families are harder to find. Having children does not necessarily mean grandchildren will follow. For some of us the mourners will be few or even none. So on this Memorial Day weekend, the most important thing for us to remember is that while those love have gone from us and left our lives emptier, we need to fill those empty spaces with full days and new experiences to the level that our finances and bodies will allow. Time passes and it is fleeting.
I never knew my grandmothers. One died in Poland during WWII; the other died here just before WWII and I grew up visiting her grave with my mother. I lost my first grandfather at 16 and my second and most beloved grandfather ten days before my 18th birthday. There were some great aunts and uncles left - most of them I knew only barely (We were not a close knit Polish family), but for me, the oldest generation was gone.
The second generation started to pass on when I was 24 and expecting my first child. My uncle died of a heart attack at the age of 52. Every few years after that, another relative would leave this earth. Death and dying is part of everyone's family. When my children were 8 and 5, we lost my father-in-law to cancer. Losing the first parent is always hard. It propels you into a different world of responsibility. We realized that with him gone, my mother-in-law would have only us (My husband was her only child), and as she had few friends and didn't drive, we soon realized that the only way to properly look after her was to move her into our home, where she stayed for the next 22 years.
My husband and I have now been married 42 years and the last of our relatives from the generation above us passed away in December. She was a cousin of my father's whose daughter is approximately seven hours younger than I am. Now, the generation above my husband and I is gone in our families. Parents, uncles, aunts, and cousins of that generation have all bid farewell to their families and their lives. Some have left generations to follow. Others have not. They are the ends of their respective lines.
As my husband and I go around to grave sites tomorrow, we will be sadly reminded that we are the next generation departing. We have already lost classmates and friends - all too young in this day and age of advanced medical care and early diagnosis. We open the obituary page of our local newspaper gingerly each day wondering which familiar name we will see next. As with more and more people of our generation, we see the end of the line. While we have two children, we have no grandchildren, and we see none in the future. We are starting to think we need to make some arrangements for family pictures, documents, and meaningful items, so that they don't end up in a landfill or yard sale somewhere.
The world is changing. Big families are harder to find. Having children does not necessarily mean grandchildren will follow. For some of us the mourners will be few or even none. So on this Memorial Day weekend, the most important thing for us to remember is that while those love have gone from us and left our lives emptier, we need to fill those empty spaces with full days and new experiences to the level that our finances and bodies will allow. Time passes and it is fleeting.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Watching Too Closely
Watching too closely
In the early 1980's, Beth Gutcheon published the only novel I've ever read that made me cry. It was "Still Missing," the story of Alex Selky, a boy of nearly 7, who lived with this divorced mother, a professor at a New York University. Alex walked to school one day and never returned. His mother, looking more and more like a lunatic as the book progressed, hounded the detective on the case, begged people to put up posters, and did just about anything you were I would have done if our children had been missing. I cried because at the end of the book, because of a stray lead and the input of a questionably credible psychic, Alex is located by the intrepid detective who bring Alex home to his mother amid a convoy of police cruisers. I left tear drops on the last pages of my library's copy of my book.
The crying wasn't over. In 1982, Kate Nelligan and Judd Hirsh played mother and detective to life in a move closely mirroring the book,although titled "Still Missing." Nelligan's angry and determined mother and Hirsh's frustrated but sympathetic detective (He's a father himself of a boy the same age), play off each other beautifully It is Hirsh who finds the missing boy and brings him home, accompanied by and passing an array of police cars driven by dedicated men who all want to be part of something happy for a change. I have seen this movie at least a dozen times, and I cry shamelessly each time.
Thirty-three years ago today, Etan Patz, the model for Gutcheon's novel is not coming home. He will never come home. Thirty-three years ago, it is reported that he was lured with candy into a convenience store where he was brutally murdered and his body dumped. Apparently, recent cold-case efforts to find Patz's remains led to some retrieved "memories" about a man who admitted to killing a child in 1979. Where this case goes from here, time will tell, and while we are all considered innocent until proven guilty, it appears that this case will soon be stamped "closed."
The disappearance of Etan Patz rocked the world of parents and changed the world of children forever. My children were both pre-school aged when Etan Patz was abducted. We lived in a suburban area where all the children on the street played together and no one worried about the children being outside alone. "Come home when the streets lights come on" was still the rallying cry of moms in the neighborhood. Most of the children had two-parent families; mothers were often home, and if your child wasn't in the yard, s/he was a house of two down the street. I was lucky in that my in-laws lived in the third house down, and so often my kids were over there eating grilled cheese sandwiches and watching TV with Grandpa.
But over the years, as people became more aware of children missing, abducted, molested, and otherwise harmed, the freedom of children was squashed as the efforts to keep children safe were expanded, almost to a point of idiocy. Parent started watching their children closely, driving them everyone and picking them up. Children were no longer able to bicycle to the park or run around with their friends. Obesity levels in children are not solely because of fast food. We don't let kids walk or bicycle, or roller skate, skateboard anywhere. Parents who don't glue themselves to their children are considered neglectful. I can only imagine how often Child and Family Service people would have knocked on my door or my mother's door when I was young after finding my daughter (or me at the age of 8, 9, or 10) over a half mile from home.
I'm reading more and more stories of children who have to be picked up from school, walked by a parent, or take the bus because the child lives three houses away from school. It's ridiculous We need to teach children how to be safe, not create a world where they are sheltered from one evil but exposed to another. We keep them under our roofs on sunny days when they should be playing outside, and while we're not looking over their shoulders, they are playing violent video games, or being preyed upon on the internet. We've only traded one ill for another one, while still providing few tools these children can use as they grow older.
Etan Patz is never coming home escorted by blue lights, sirens and the joyful faces of law enforcement people. Many other children are never coming home either. I'm not foolish enough to think that no child will ever again be harmed. When I was twelve, my school chum Cheryl Laird, was abducted, assaulted, and brutally murdered - her body having been dumped less than a mile from my house. Violence is not new. I do think, however, we have pushed the pendulum too far in the other direction. We need to teach children, not watchdog them. I hope the parents of Etan Patz do not hold themselves responsible for letting him walk to the bus stop unescorted that day. They did nothing wrong.
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