Sochi, Soviets, and Spectacles

I love the Olympic Games.  Not the get-up-at-three-in-the-morning-to-watch-women’s-hockey love, but the I-will-tune-in-each-night-and-actually-read-the-sports-section love.  As with other games, there is plenty of rumor, innuendo, and political talk swirling around the Sochi Games.  This happens every year – think China’s human rights record; think 1936 Munich; think 2002 Salt Lake City bribing inquiry.  Still, thanks to the athletes, the Olympic spirit overcomes almost all negativity to allow the competition and camaraderie to shine most brightly by the closing ceremonies.

I have been following the Sochi games with a pointed interest.  The #sochiproblems on Twitter took up thirty minutes of my time yesterday afternoon.  If even half of those problems are real, my response is:  yep, that’s Russia.  Russia is its own thing.  I know.  I lived there.  More precisely, I lived in Soviet Russia in 1990 and 1991.  Russia is Russia.  There’s no real way to describe it. 

Last night the announcers at the opening ceremonies tried to summarize Russia with banalities about the number of time zones and how long it takes to fly from one side to the other.  The opening performance was an overview of Russian history.  Wow.  That’s quite an undertaking for a country that seems to still have some hotel issues: yellow water (normal for Russia, but don’t drink it) and toilet flushing delays (normal – just be patient).

The opening ceremony spectacle was fine – albeit overreaching in trying to summarize Russia’s vast history into twenty or so minutes.  The thing knocked me off the couch was, as the post-World War II Soviet period was being depicted, an announcer commented that it was “ok to be nostalgic for Soviet times.”

What?  Nostalgic for repression?  Disappeared family members?  Forced labor? Communal apartments?  Midnight arrests?  Paranoia?  Food shortages?  Maybe he was referring to the forced order that defined the appearance of Soviet life?  I’m hoping that whoever that announcer was instantly – or at least eventually – regretted that comment.  I’m trusting that the announcer was simply filled with an over-romanticism of all things Russian and Soviet, given the setting and performance. 

We do have a tendency to do that.  Things in the past were somehow easier, cleaner, more stable, or better – weren’t they?  It’s not true.  Things in the past were muddled, confusing, challenging, happy, and scary. Just like they are today. We also do this: things will be better, calmer, happier, more stable in the future when I just_____ (fill in the blank).  Having the blank filled in does not guarantee no more flat tires or no more burnt pizza crust – it simply denotes that the thing in the blank will have happened. 

Mindfulness.  Living in the moment.  The present is a gift.  Use whatever cliché you want to, but one of the main successes of living is doing just that:  living.  Now.  Recognize and honor the past, but leave it alone.  Have goals and dreams for the future.  But live. Now.  Psychologists suggest that romanticizing the past might mean that the present is unhappy and the future is scary.  Certainly that is true in international politics.  Things change over time – for the better and the worse.  But, there’s no point in bemoaning and dramatizing such shifts, personally or globally.  We all must adjust.  The Russian people have been doing just this for millennia, and they will continue doing so, just as we all will.  The question is: how will we do it?

Will we be overly nostalgic for times that had their own ups and downs? 

Might we look anxiously ahead in our planner to try to control what waits around the corner?

Or, perhaps, we might just want to enjoy and participate in the spectacle that is life. 

What Two Inches of Snow Can Do

The news down this way has almost melted.  We have a little bit of a snowboy trying to hang on in our front yard, but after 65 degrees this afternoon, he will be gone.  In relation to the southern snowstorm, there have been articles written this week about: politicians’ lack of common sense and general incompetence; teachers’ dedication and kindness to stranded students; southerners’ lack of driving skills; and, those who cared for and reached out to those who were stranded.

It’s funny to me how people want to blame politicians for the weather and its fall out.  Atlanta experienced an unfortunately timed wintry mix earlier this week; we in Augusta were waiting and hoping for a few flakes to play in.  No matter when the winter arrived, I fail to see how the governor or other politicians are to blame.  It was a matter of bad timing on the part of the gods of weather, businesses, government, and schools.  Of course, wherever you may live, it is probably de rigueur to blame others for whatever inconvenient or scary occurrences people encounter.  How about a little less of blame-mongering and a little more of: well, this is life?

New reporters’ surprise at teachers’ dedication always surprises me.  Teachers stayed overnight at schools with stranded students in and around Atlanta this past week.  Of course they did.  That’s the kind of people the majority of teachers are.  I’m annoyed that our society still marginalizes and vilifies teachers in so many subtle ways.  Teachers are not people whose work days end at 3:30 and who want summers off.  Teachers do so much more than anyone thinks they do, and they are continually on call for staying overnight in a snow storm or bolting their doors against school intruders.  I fail to understand why positive news stories about teachers are more surprising than the negative ones.  I guess it goes back to the old saying, “If teachers walked on water, the headline would read ‘Teachers refuse to swim.’”

I have lived in the South for almost fourteen years.  It is true that many southerners have no idea how to drive in the snow or on ice.  The reason for that would be (drumroll): the winters are mild down this way.  There’s very little ice and snow.  But really, who cares?  How is this observation an indictment of southern people?  It’s not.  I lived for 33 years in the Midwest and there are plenty of people up that way who careen off ice covered roads and end up in ditches when snow falls.  Really, it is those folks who should be shamed (if, in fact, anyone should be) about poor winter driving skills.  It is always harder to do something that you have little experience with – how about a little compassion?

Also, littering newsfeeds and feel-good story slots were the tales of those who housed strangers, who brought hot chocolate to the bumper-to-bumper interstate, who put their four-wheel drive vehicles to use.  Not a few of my southern friends touted such acts as “southern hospitality.”  I beg to differ.  Such acts are noble, kind, caring, but they have nothing to do with “southern hospitality.”  Such acts are borne of the thought patterns and generosity of human beings, regardless of where they grew up or currently reside.  Not everyone thinks to go out of his way to help others, but to be sure, there is no more or no less of such “hospitality” in the South than anywhere else.  Human beings have the capacity for great and small acts of kindness, and the snow reminded us of that this week.

Two inches of snow brought out the best in people around Atlanta.  Two inches of snow brought out some idiocy in our news commentators.  Two inches of snow caused a major city to shut down.  But, two inches of snow might just serve to remind us to embrace all parts of life, even the inconvenient ones; to remember that human beings are often decent and generous; and, to recall that we all are really linked in so many more ways that we care to admit. 

A Funny Thing Happened: On Justin, Violence, and Memes

I was told to “lighten up” today.  Indeed, there are things about which I may need to lighten up, but let me tell you about one that I do not need to lighten up about.

We all know that Justin Bieber was arrested on various charges this past week.  There has been a meme circulating on social media that has Justin’s mug shot with the lyric “as long as you love me” superimposed.  On the other half of the meme there is a picture of a menacing looking man in the same type of orange jumpsuit that Justin is wearing with the words, “Oh, I’m gonna love you.” 

I am not going to apologize for not liking and for objecting to sexual violence or, in this meme’s case, implied sexual violence jokes.  This isn’t funny.  Justin may have lots of problems; he may be a pseudo-musician; he may be an over privileged punk who is running amuck.  He is a celebrity, yes, but more than that he is a human being.  And, like any other human being, he does not deserve to be the victim of sexual assault.  Whatever you think of him, I bet if you stop and think for one second, you will agree that while he needs to answer for breaking the law, he certainly doesn’t deserve sexual violence.  Put your best friend’s, your brother’s, your cousin’s, your son’s picture in there instead of Justin’s – still laughing?  By posting and giggling about this kind of post, you are conceding that sexual violence should serve as part of a punishment for running afoul of the law.  

If your response to that last sentence is anything like “Well, yeah, too bad, that punk deserves what he gets” or “It’s all in good fun.”  Then, I suppose you think if a woman dresses in a certain way she deserves to be raped.  That’s funny, right?  How about if a young woman on a college campus drinks too much, does she “deserve” a sexual assault?  Hilarious. Did you know that “[seven] percent of male students [have] admitted to committing or attempting rape, and nearly two-thirds of them said they had done so multiple times — six on average”?  Are you laughing?

The situations are different, but the implication is the same: if a person does certain things, then he or she deserves sexual violence.  If a celebrity breaks the law, he should answer for that just as anyone else should.  Does he deserve to be raped or otherwise violated in prison?  According to a 2012 Justice Department study, “nearly one of every 10 state prisoners is sexually victimized during confinement.”  (Cited article.)  Is that really funny?

Rather coincidentally, this meme was posted on the same day that President Obama created a task force to make a study of sexual violence on college campuses and gave that task force 90 days for the study and to “to recommend best practices for colleges to prevent or respond to assaults, and to check that they are complying with existing legal obligations.” (You can read about this task force here.)

Sexual assault is a problem among all populations – women, men, gay, straight; and, in all areas – rural, urban, suburban, college campuses.  I would posit that the president can create as many task forces as he likes and review as many best practices as he wants, but that will change precious little when there are significant segments of America that thinks sexual violence is just what happens in prison, or just what happens when a girl gets drunk at college, or is just that funny. 

Nope, I’m not going to lighten up about this.

I am not laughing.

Remember the Back Yard

We had world peace in our backyard one summer.  It was one of the last summers that I lived in the country, and I remember it quite clearly.  Summer came early – at Easter – with the purchase of three dyed ducklings.  One for each child.  They were kept in the shelter of a wire cage and under the awning of the old barn.  The boys tended the ducks daily, and, of course, the cages were elevated so that a passing wild dog or coyote couldn’t have supper.

At that time, we had a one-eyed barn cat called Celia, a petite calico who reproduced way too often.  (Yes, yes, I know – but she was semi-wild, and so we didn’t spay her.)  She was one-eyed because she once ran afoul of another creature, her eyeball swelled and popped out.  She kept the mouse population to a tolerable level and regularly chased birds.

We also had a dog called Jack, a boxer-sharpei mix, who was as stupid as he was cute.  He and Celia maintained a cordial relationship when he went outside to poop.  They chased good naturedly until Celia got tired of it and scampered up a tree, then Jack would come to the door to ask to sit in his favorite chair and sleep the day away. 

At dusk there would be deer not far from the house, and once night fell raccoons inevitably rattled around.  It was a balanced yard-  full of characters, but overall a good community.  No harm befell anyone until Jeffrey the duck seemingly took his own life in adolescence.  Just before school, the boys and I went out to find that Jeffrey hanging from his own cage wall by the neck.  Upon closer examination, it appeared that, in fact, a foreign creature of some kind had snatched at Jeffrey, and in attempting to pull him through the cage, snapped his neck. 

The loss of Jeffrey was mourned.  He was buried out near the creek, and our lives, as they must, moved on.  The ducks grew enough to be freed to wander around the yard, ostensibly to grow to make their way to the creek more happily than Jeffrey had.  They wandered around the yard, and when they failed to follow instincts to water, we bought and filled a kiddie pool for them. 

These two male ducks (Ootka and Donald) nested together.  When Jack became overzealous in his teasing, Ootka would honk at Jack and that would be the end of that.  Celia wasn’t interested in ducks who outweighed her; so she kept to the rodents. 

I clearly remember one mid-July evening.  I was sitting on the side stoop of the house, not far from the ducks’ roosting spot.  Celia was splayed out on the stoop, cooling her very pregnant self.  Jack was bouncing around near the ducks without menace, occasionally racing down the driveway to bark at a particularly loud passing motorcycle.  The ducks had bathed in the pool and had commenced rooting around the murky hedge for bugs.  None of these creatures gave the others pause for concern or care.  The yard was wide enough and generous enough for us all. It was – we were – a beautiful little community of life. 

This past week, people around here became territorial, snarling, jealous, cruel, uncaring, selfish, petty, and mean.   Perhaps it was the full moon.  Perhaps it is human nature.  But, when those around me become small, hard, and narrow, I like to think of the yard that summer. 

We were all different, yet the yard was big enough for all.  We all had our own ways of living and our own agendas.  Together we had endured loss; we lived with good-natured teasing; we spent time alone; we cared for each other; we spent time together; we protected each other; we tolerated and even loved those different from ourselves, those with goals and lifestyles different from our own.  We shared the yard.

Diets, Juicing, and Exercise - Oh My!

It’s January 10 today, and you know what that means: the two-week rush at the gym is almost over, but I think the Weight Watchers and NutriSystem commercials will continue for another 7-12 days. What is it about a fresh calendar that puts us all in the weight room and on the rowing machines?  The New Year inspires people to live better and be happier, and for many Americans, that adds up to the gym and an eating plan.  But, what if working out a bunch more doesn’t make you happy?  What if replacing meals with grainy shakes in unnatural flavors (spinach-kiwi-lime-kale-banana-flax-blueberry, anyone?) doesn’t tickle your taste buds? 

The New Year brought us the “polar vortex” across the nation, but at the same time, a good number of friends were posting inquiries on Face Book about the best shake recipes, Beach Body Challenges, juicing techniques, and Brazilian Butt Lift groups. Being the subversive friend that I am I posted “Caramel Macchiato” under the shake suggestions; the workout challenges prompted a comment something akin to “How about a stroll to the bar for a pint?”  Yeah, I’m supportive like that.

I have friends who are just recently – as of the New Year – really into juicing or green shakes or eliminating carbs after noon.  In fact, one of the carb eliminators was middle son.  He announced after the holidays he was going to not have any heavy carbs after a certain point in the day.  That’s fine with me, so I told him, “Just tell me what you want to have instead and write the stuff you want on the grocery list.”  This is the son who has been a vegetarian/pescatarian since he was five.  I’m used to dietary accommodations; it would be hard to faze me.  After about a week back at school, he determined that carb elimination is unrealistic for him – just as so many of us determine that three hours a night at the gym and rising forty minutes early in the morning to juice the organic fruits isn’t for us. 

I also have friends who are not just athletes – they are triathletes.  They are those who run the  marathons, do IronMan events, throw in a half marathon for “fun”, and train for 50K events.  They are those who look forward to the weekends not to relax, but to do all the normal stuff (rake the yard, trim the hedges) as well as a quick 15 mile run in the morning, and then on Sunday, you can find them riding an easy 60 mile hilly bike path.  It is a lifestyle that demands planning and desire and support and time.  I admire these people.  I would like to be more like them, but alas, I am a mere mortal.

I’m not against working out.  Like so many others, these New Year’s posts remind me that I can be more active and healthier.  But, at what cost?  I texted with my sister (a 20-year personal trainer and exercise instructor) about this.  I lamented the crowdedness of the gym, the indooryness of the treadmills, the cost, and the time spent to gain or maintain even a modicum of health.  You see, I have things that I want to do, things I must do, and then there’s the gym.  As my sister pointed out, doing the gym even minimally to get that modicum of health will enhance all other endeavors.  She’s right, of course, and I should re-evaluate my time, I suppose.  She also went on to say that if people would eat decent foods when they are hungry, stop eating when they are full, and have treats occasionally, they would be happier and healthier.   

What is it about this time of year that inspires health crazes that fizzle out?  When I look around at the new juicers people got for Christmas, and the crowded ellipticals at the gym I’m a little sad.  I suppose some people are doing these things because they very truly want to and they are getting joy from these new endeavors.  But also as sure as some are zealously enjoying sweating on the stair machine, there are double that many that are trudging through because - well, just because it is the New Year.  They have embraced media and peer pressure to do something they really don’t want to do in order to be someone they really don’t want to be.  I know this is true because I was that person.  Doing anything because it’s the plan someone else has for your life doesn’t just not work - it’s sad. 

Be who you are.  Work out when and if and how you want to; eat salads, juice kale, or have a hamburger.  And, whatever your resolutions or ideas are for the New Year and beyond, remember that life is short, you get only one, and you need to plan accordingly.

Cheers!

I'm Done Being a Mother

I said something over Christmas break when all three of my children were at the dinner table that I’ve been wrestling with ever since.  At first, I castigated myself and considered apologizing.  Then, after some thought – the kind some people might call soul searching – I came to believe that I couldn’t really apologize for something that I mean.

Apple slices.  I had simply forgotten to slice the apples and put them on the table. We had just sat down to one of the evening meals that I had spent about three hours on – planning, shopping, making sure it would have both carnivore and herbivore appeal, and preparing – and I realized I had forgotten the apples.  I asked if anyone really wanted apples, and the responses were varied.  Tired and not really willing to slice even one apple, I said, “Well, if you want apples, you can cut them yourself.”   There followed some jovial banter about if I truly loved them I would cut apples because that’s what mothers do.  My response: “I’m kind of done mothering.”

We proceeded to eat dinner amiably, but that last sentence stuck around.  It hung in the air for a bit, and then descended and started lurking in corners around the house.  One of my sons brought it up jokingly when I mentioned there were snacks they could help themselves to.  I even wrote a poem about it.  Since then, though, I have been embracing the truth in that statement.

Of course, I'll always be a mother.  Being a mother is one of the roles that I am most proud of in my life.  But, I am many other things.  My boys are growing up.  My mom once told me that "the point of being a parent is to work yourself out of a job."  In many respects that's true.  I don't change diapers any more; I don' t shop for Garanimals for them any more; and, as I have recently had to remind my youngest, I don't need to see anything below your waist unless you think something is wrong down there.  I'm in a transition phase of this mom job.

I’m done mothering in as much as it means I have to cut apple slices for men/boys who are 21, 18 and 12.  I’m done mothering in as much as it means I need to do laundry for those self-same people.  I’m not willing to plan perfectly balanced suppers any more, and I’m not going to pack healthful lunches with smiley face notes.   That’s the kind of mothering I am done with.  My youngest son suggested a few days ago that if I get lonely once they all leave home, I could adopt a child.  No.  There are women who want to keep mothering young children indefinitely; I know some of them.  I respect them.  I do not want to do that. 

I don’t really want to shoot baskets in the driveway any more.  I mean, I will do that but…get a friend or brother to join you.  I’m not picking up your belongings because you had a long day at school – so did I.  I have had twenty-one years of long days at school.  Make your own lunch for tomorrow, and you can help make supper, too.

I am not suggesting that my sons are sloppy or inconsiderate or demanding.  My middle son has done his own laundry since middle school. My eldest might tell you that he has always felt older than he is due to my parenting.  Overall,  I have put lots of effort into raising them to be considerate, kind, and thoughtful.  They almost always are.  They are pretty independent, too.  When I go to book club, they make their own supper and clean it up.  It's funny when I see a mother who plans to go to her child’s college town on the child’s birthday to celebrate with him.  Here’s a spoiler: the kid doesn’t want you to do that.  Send them a new sweater, a funny card, and some money.  Such mothers are trying to keep themselves occupied and their children young and dependent.  

Just like those birthday-celebrating mothers continue to do, I have put enormous pressure on myself over the years to make sure my sons’ socks match and their nice shirts are on the hangers and there's a vegetable and starch and protein on every plate at every meal.  I have been the slave-master and slave at the same time.  A slave to whatever I thought I “should do” or that I thought other mothers were doing and that I needed to do to “keep up” or risk having socially-stunted and unkind children going out my door each morning.  Now, I certainly don’t care if your socks match or your jeans are neatly pressed.  If you have french fries and cheese for supper when I'm at work late, then ok. I’m done embracing mothering pressure.   

I’m done mothering if your room is messy or your fail to brush your hair. I’m done mothering if you want a snack but can’t see the pile of clementines or box of granola bars or jar of cookies.  I will usually make supper, but just know that unless it’s a holiday, I’m not really feeling it.  I’ll help with homework if I can, but that’s unlikely.  You’ll probably have to stay after school for help from the teacher and study with friends.  I am happy to listen to laments about friends, girlfriends, boyfriends, finances, school, and jobs; that’s the kind of mothering I will always be available for.  I’ll discuss politics, religion, television, movies, and social trends.  I’ll always be there to hug you and tell you I love you.  Always.  But, I’m not going to make sure your sock drawer is in order or that your underwear is folded.    I’ll make sure you aren’t living in your own filth if you are in my home.  If you’re on your own, you really should clean up, but I’m not going to come by and check.

There are all kinds of mothers in the world, and I’d like to think that I have been a decent one for twenty-one years and that I will continue to evolve in this position.  I’m done mothering boys.  I’ll happily mother young men, but they are going to have to cut their own apples.

Words Matter

Note:  There are several coarse or vulgar words repeated throughout this blog.  If you are easily offended, please join me another day. 

In the past two weeks I seem to have lost two friends.  I don’t lament the losses, but I want to tell you about them.  Both of them are male.  I lost (although “got rid of” seems more appropriate) both of them for the same reason:  I called them on the carpet for using the word “bitches” instead of “women.” 

Quick time out #1:  let me be fair:  I don’t particularly like it when grown women are referred to or call themselves girls.  If you are over a certain age – let’s say 18 – you are a woman.  At the same time, I like men to be called men not boys or guys after a certain age. To add even more fairness into the mix, I get all kinds of guff from friends and acquaintances when I use the phrase, “When I was a girl…” when I talk about my childhood.  And, my sister will be happy to note that I employ unusual vocabulary choices regularly. So, I will take the hit as a linguistic and diction snob. 

Back to the story.  Both of the males with whom I was talking used the word bitches nonchalantly.  I don’t care.  I have been known to curse like a sailor, and my sister will tell you that I’m the crude one.  It was the fact that these men used the word “bitches” as a perfectly acceptable synonym for “women.”  Wait, what? 

With one of the men, I stopped him by asking to whom he was referring and were they really bitches?  He looked at me quizzically.  “No, no, you know…I mean bitches, you know hos – women.”  No, no, I did not know.  This is a grown man – not a teen still figuring out how to zip his fly. This is a college-educated man.  Well, I let it rip.  I asked him why on earth he thought that it was acceptable to call women, as a group, bitches; I certainly did not call all men dicks or assholes.  Of course, there are those amongst the male population, just as there are bitches in the female population, but that did not mean that these words are acceptable terms of reference for the entire populations of either gender.  He mumbled something, changed the subject, and then made his getaway. 

Quick time out #2: I did my research after that first encounter.  Perhaps I was being overly sensitive?  Perhaps this is the new linguistic norm?  I questioned a few friends and then opened the dictionary.  Bitch is a term for a female dog in the first two entries of the definition in the dictionary I used.  The next entry is noted as slang for a “malicious, unpleasant, or selfish person, especially a woman.”  The entry then goes on with two additional slang meanings and progresses on to the verb definition. 

The other man in question texted me a comment that, again, used bitches to denote all women. . A whole world of people were just called, "malicious, unpleasant, or selfish" - I had to say something.  I texted him back that all women were not bitches, just as all men are not dicks  He discontinued the conversation and proceeded to post a long, interesting status on social media about how those who judge him need to take a step back and reevaluate and get over themselves. 

I’m over myself.  Standing up for the proper use of language, especially as relates to human beings, does not warrant reevaluation on my part.  The words that we use to refer to people, our activities, and our lives as a whole are absolutely important. Just as our clothes and hairstyles tell something of who we are, our words tell even more. If one is using “bitches” or other negative terms to refer to women in general, there’s a problem.  Misogyny, anyone?  Same for women who use the word “dick” or other such language to refer to men in general.  That’s called misandry, by the way.

Sure, I could blame the music industry, movies, pornography, or whatever other societal influences that are out there.  However, when push comes to shove, we are all captains of our own vocabularies and expressions. 

We all have the power to choose the words we use, and the words we use have power.