A Lost Art

Remember the days when the teacher would hand out graded papers face down, covering up the names and grades, or some other attempt at sabotaging your rabid curiosity to see what your buddy next to you got on the same test? And remember how if you just got to see the handwriting, you could probably figure out which student it belonged to? Those days are soon to be over.

What makes me scratch my head: what harm does it to teach children a skill that, while they may not use it everyday, would be useful in the event of an electronic meltdown? Not to mention, there are times when pen to paper, with looping script, is rewarding and enjoyable. Not to mention, cursive is much faster and easier on the hands to do any long-term writing. We teach our children math skills they may or may not use, don’t we? In the event that they may need them in the future, right? So why not handwriting, something that is so much a part of our identity and culture?

What About Love?

Okay, that’s a sappy title, but as I read this article about how to prevent drivers from texting while driving, it occurred to me that we place no value in intelligence, decency, and perhaps, in more general terms, our humanity. Why do we feel we must force people to stop texting? It goes hand in hand with smoking laws. Why must we force people to stop doing things? How about, get the word out about how dangerous it is, and appeal to people’s brains! There are always going to be those who are determined to do dangerous things. There is no stopping that. But many of us take warning and research seriously, and we make decisions in our lives based on our own intelligence and concern about our communities at large.

I admit to texting occasionally behind the wheel. It’s not something I ever thought was a good habit! But as more and more concern has been ladled on this issue, I refrain, or pull over on the side of the road, if I need to communicate via texting. I’ve purchased a really good bluetooth headset (if you want one for a good price, shoot me an email) that allows me to talk on the phone while keeping BOTH hands on the wheel. In general, I want to drive safer because I could never forgive myself if my own poor driving habits harmed someone else. Yeah, sure, I prefer to stay alive, too. But if you screw yourself up, you have no one to blame but you. If you hurt or kill another person due to your own irresponsibility, it’s devastating on so many levels.

Why do we not think that people care?

How Easy It Is…

…To say “pish-posh” when it isn’t YOUR money on the line.

A Society in Which Morality Has No Cause

I sit here, with my husband watching ESPN Monday Night Football. The announcers are nearly peeing themselves with excitement over the Philadelphia Eagles’s new player Michael Vick. I listen to these words, hear the many talents this man has, and I think, seriously? Are we only concerned with the skill a player has on the field, but could care less whether he kills animals off the field? Does the behavior of a sociopath not enter into the decision to present a player to the world, with the Eagles emblem emblazoned on his chest? Is this the example we want for our children, for our society?

I abhor the way we treat felons in our society. We create our monsters, then we object to dealing with them. I believe they need to have an honest way to make a living when they get out of prison, and they deserve a second chance. Notice I didn’t say they deserve to go back to life just as it was before they were incarcerated. Notice I didn’t say that punishment should be avoided or ignored. I believe in second chances; not excusing the behavior and giving them everything back.

This example of the Philadelphia Eagles is disgusting. I am an animal-lover but do not confuse them as equal to humans. However, this man tortured animals. These creates are given to us as companions, as pets, to protect, care for, and treat humanely. Michael Vicks confessed behavior is so offensive (link), I have no idea how anyone can stand to look at the man. But soon, no doubt, our children will be buying jerseys with his name on them, cups with his image stretched around them, bobble-head dolls with his handsome mug wiggling atop it. And I will watch and pray that they do not learn the lessons that we teach them…that somehow, perhaps through osmosis or divine intervention, they will not think that this kind of behavior should be rewarded and accepted. That in that murky depth of lost morality, they will absorb that poor behavior carries with it a price, and should not be ignored simply because it is more convenient or advantageous to a scoreboard.

Illegal

We watched the movie Crossing Over last night. It stars Harrison Ford, Ashley Judd, and a host of other I’ve-seen-him/her-before actors and centers around illegal immigration and the ICE. What drives me nuts in movies is when the agenda is so abundantly clear, yet some people will determine that this movie represents the accurate situation of all illegal immigarnts. What is more, is that it played on your emotions, while offering no logic or law to explain what was happening. Ashley Judd was so busy looking offended, mortified and hurt, I wondered what her character learned in law school – was it only that we should feel sorry for families who are here illegally and argue that they should be allowed to continue to pay no taxes yet take every advantage of this country’s bounty? Without contributing one dime?!

A young illegal immigrant girl who, using her hijacked freedom of speech, chose to speak out that we finally “heard the voices” of the 9/11 suicide bombers. She was then deported, along with one of her parents. I’m a little confused: in a country devastated by that event, if you choose to speak out about the other side, you certainly have that freedom…but when you are not legally here, and we are still under threat, it may not be the wisest move.

Another situation is a young woman who is here, again illegally, with her illegal little boy. The boy is rescued by the ICE officer, returned to his grandparents in Mexico, while the officer searches without success for the boy’s mother who supposedly was deported. At the end of the movie, you find she paid the “wrong coyote” to take her over the border and was left for dead in the desert. While my empathy is for the child and for this hapless young woman, they were here illegally. They took a chance, and it didn’t pan out. Those are the breaks.

If I were to go to any other country: Italy, India, Indonesia, and choose to enter illegally, I would expect that the government would eventually boot me out. I would assume that NOTHING I had there was permanent, unless my status changed to “legal.” I would also understand that I was taking a risk with my well-being – with my life – and hoping for the best. I would NOT wonder why the country was so mean if they chose to act on their laws and deport my sorry carcass. Why on earth should I feel pity or abhorrence because people came here illegally and bad things happened because we removed them? How is that the U.S.’s fault? How is that my problem as a citizen?

I don’t understand why this issue is even an issue. There are laws that govern modern society – you either obey or you pay the consequences. We pay for their way back to their country, they are escorted to the flight, and they are sent back with their possessions. There are many countries who offer far less civilized solutions.

And if you want to speak out about 9/11 in a country already in fear because of KNOWN suicide bomber training facilities within our own borders, and you desire to lay your sympathies with the enemy, you better be prepared to answer for it. You cannot maintain a country’s security by ignoring a known threat. Neither can you hide behind freedom of speech. Yes, you can say anything. But saying anything also has consequences. If that speech is backed up by evidence that you are playing for the enemy, we call that treason.

I recognize that this is a fine line. Free speech is a gift which is rapidly disappearing. However, while you may say anything you want, you cannot expect that it comes without repercussions. That is not the case in your home with your spouse or significant other (can I get a head nod?), and it is certainly not the case with national security. Say what you want, but if your behavior shows that you mean true harm to this country, get ready to pony up.

New York from the Knee Down

I’m not someone who typically notices people’s feet. I swear I’m usually much more superficial — checking to see if they chew their nails, buy clothing at high-end or low-end stores (or at high-end consignment like me), or if they shaved in the last few days. That last one isn’t for amateurs, either, especially when it comes to women.

This week, though, while I mourned the pain in my metatarsals and phalanges as I rode the subway, I spent time looking at what city folk’s feet and what they wear on them. Given that it was mid-summer, this was easy to do. And what an experience.

First, I saw some of the ugliest feet I’ve ever seen. I’m not talking that they had ugly foot parts. I mean neglect of ones piggy’s that should be illegal in a city that demands so much of these reliable limbs. Toenails that hadn’t been cut, dried out calluses and painfully cracked toes and heels. Shoe-shiners need to take a clue — pedicures is the business to get into in NYC. I saw feet much too wide to be wearing such narrow flip flops, and toes so long I no longer questioned whether we came from apes. The evidence is in, people.

Female dancers’ feet are easy to spot. Veins sit at the top of the skin, competing for space amid the bony ridges that protrude  through the skin. Cramped, scarred toes press into a perpetual “v,” while the arch over-performs even in repose. The elegant toe-first placement of the foot when they stand up, the delicate balance that transfers from foot to foot as they walk with a grace no woman should possess – certainly, I don’t – and waifish ankles that don’t seem to be made of enough stuff to support the human body.

The fashion of shoes must sell best only to the elite that can afford their own transport, or in cities that don’t commend themselves to walking. I saw plenty of Birkenstocks, Aerosoles, Nikes, and Sketchers. Women wore sensible flats with the finest of suits, and very few even bothered with kitten heels. I can count on one hand how many pairs of high-heels I saw clattering around. Men typically preferred sneakers or flip flops, and I’m thinking they missed the Oprah episode about the lack of arch support in the average flip flops.

So much for “What Not To Wear’s” insistence that heels can be comfortable and a woman is never caught dead without a bit of height beneath her pants suit. New Yorkers know better.  Those who walk everywhere value comfortable feet and footware. The rest of us with our uncomfortable dress shoes and too-high-wedges must serve as supreme entertainment.

Observations while with a nine-year-old in NYC

I spent yesterday with a 9 year old – in New York City. We’ve been once before together – NYC is a guilty pleasure for me which I try to indulge in at least once a year – and G asked to go again. What never occurred to me was how a nine-year-old would view New York City when we had no specific plans, no must-do-while-here list.

1. They don’t care about museums, famous monuments, or 9/11. At least, they don’t care yet. We visited the WTC site, as his grandmother had “suggested” that he should see it while we were there. So we stood over the pit left behind, now filled with construction workers, pylons, and building detritus. Machines groaned, metal squealed, and over it all, voices yelled directions and questions as the massive “Freedom Tower” takes shape. As we walked back, passing the gutted earth that will be memorialized when the project is completed, G looked up at me. “Where are the twin towers? I want to see them yet.”

I glanced at him, shielding my eyes from the aggressive sun. “Uh, dude. These are the twin towers. Or what’s left of them.”

He squinted, looking around us. “Where?”

I swept an arm towards the massive enclosure that hides the construction from street view. “All this. This used to be the World Trade Center – or, the Twin Towers. That was the World Trade Center’s nickname.”

His mouth turned down. “What? You mean, they’re not here any more?”

So I explained to him – again – the events of 9/11/01. Of course, he wasn’t yet two when the planes crashed and killed thousands.

His mouth dropped open, annoyance flashing in his light eyes. “That stinks! I wanted to see the twin towers! Why couldn’t they have blown up something else?”

2. A playground in Tribecca is NOT the same as the one in Central Park. And neither is the same as the one in your hometown. Therefore, a four hour drive is well worth it for a playground visit. You read that right. We drove 3.5 hours, took a bus into the city, and spent the bulk of the day in playgrounds and Central Park. Don’t get me wrong – they were nice playgrounds. And Central Park has a nice carnival with overpriced games and rides…just like the ones at home. But to a nine-year-old, they are unique, offer entertainment surpassing that of Madame Tussaud’s or Ripley’s Believe It or Not, and in many ways, are a pathway to an imaginary world adults will never understand. So I ate overpriced ice cream, sat on uncomfortable metal benches, and waited while he enjoyed a childhood I can’t quite remember having…even though I have the pictures to prove I was once his age.

3. People yelling in public frighten kids – especially when “fuck” is the major component. Yes, the homeless are no longer the sweet, pity-inducing beings that shake a can for coins  while propping up a “Will Work For Food” cardboard sign on the corner of the street. No, now they are indignant citizens trying to make a decent living. And those of us “fuckin’ privleged” class aren’t making it easy on them. “Eight fuckin’ dollars” for an “entire fuckin’ day’s efforts” are “not fuckin’ acceptable.” Or at least that was the opinion of the homeless woman in Central Park. I thought G might have a meltdown.

4. Hungry prophets yelling on the subway frighten kids as well. This one had a cleaner mouth, and a distinct God-speak to his plea. He was dressed in new shorts, nice Nikes, and had a darn nice backpack, but apparently, there are thousands upon hundreds of thousands of people going hungry in this country every day. It is up to good folk like ourselves to help them out. So he held out his baseball cap – a very nice Yankees hat – for us to step up to our civic duty and buy his dinner. Didn’t seem to be any takers on our car, so we got a sullen, “God bless you,” which sounded as though he would have preferred to invoke another deity and epithet, and he headed for the next car. I didn’t point out to him that the sign on the emergency doors forbade him to travel between cars while the train was in motion. Why stop a man workin’ hard for his supper?

5. Why risk local foods which you don’t know anything about when there is a McDonalds across the street? I thought I might have to hogtie G to get him to try NYC pizza. Let’s face it – there is nothing like the greasy, dirty kitchens of NYC’s finest pizza makers to turn out the best pizza on the planet. And do I even need to say it: garlic knots?! He finally submitted to my insistence on getting real pizza in a real pizza joint…and he seemed satisified with the cuisine. But I didn’t miss his longing stare towards McDonalds when we passed it in Times Square.

Thus our second trip to the city was a success, albeit an uneventful one – no puking, exploding toilets, or debit card mishaps this time. The next trip is sure to include a stop on Broadway. My suggestions of Wicked, Billy Elliot, Mary Poppins or Shrek fell on deaf ears. Instead, big eyes met mine: “How about that Phantom of the Opera one we passed? That looked totally cool!” :sigh:

You’ve heard of the self-cleaning oven…

How about the self-healing body? Read here.

Re-Entry to Commense

I just returned from Wilkes-Barre, PA, the home of Wilkes University. Wilkes offers a low-residency graduate program for an MFA in Creative Writing. Twice a year, for 8 days, you stay on the campus in the dorms or a nearby motel, and attend lectures and readings from 9 to 9 each day. Twice a year, you experience a life that many long for, or perhaps only dreamed of, depending on your perspective. Twice a year, you rejoin the world of singledom, putting aside finances, children, and spouses, and focus on what is your passion: writing.

I wish I could express to you the joy of it – to be among other writers, filling in your joie de vivre along with your words, and living a life where you can remember what dreams, focus and goals are supposed to look like. You meet authors, screenplay writers, playrights, poets, and everything in between on the creative spectrum. We listen to each other read, to gifted authors read, and this year, our key-note speaker was Pulitzer prize winner William Kennedy.

It’s a place where a feisty Obama supporter can befriend a staunch libertarian. A quiet, reserved girl can embrace a party-minded Bohemian. Of course, it’s also a place of much drinking and consorting with the, ah, faculty…but I digress.

I don’t remember ever feeling as conflicted about returning home after time away. Even when a vacation is over, I yearn to get back to work, to return to my life and get back into my circadian rhythms. As someone who must life by such sterile things like schedules and plans, it’s a bittersweet experience to leave home and attend what most view as a “break from life.”

However, these residencies provide structure, format, and learning, and every need: food, housing, and entertainment. It’s like a true vacation, for those of us who value the cleverly turned phrase and believe that living life provides the best stimuli.

So I’ll sit here, eat what is left in my house after being gone for nine days, and look forward to January 2010. Then I’ll return to that eight day crash course in dreams and hopes, frustrations and disappointments, and camaraderie only others who share the same demented determination can understand.

American Idol Lesson

I am, like many other Americans, brainless when it comes to Tuesday evenings (or whatever night the competition is on). I can’t help it – sometimes it’s a train wreck, sometimes it’s an epiphany…but it’s irresistable to me now.

Something I realized tonight. Paula, Kara, and even Randy at times, give so much positive praise, so much fluff, that when a singer gets a compliment from them, it is almost meaningless. When Simon compliments someone, it means something.

Criticism, while painful, cannot be done without.

Valuable lesson.