I’d like for this to be the last time I spew out my despair over what I’m seeing around me. I highly doubt that anyone who, in my humble opinion, needs a verbal ass-kicking would be reading this anyway.

So I’m sitting here sounding like Charlie Brown’s parents and getting nowhere.

Fine.

What I’m going to say is this- My mother loved Lord Vader, and not simply because he had the coolest duds. My mother spent years insisting to me that Vader would be redeemed. She was positive he had what we call “good” buried in his heart. She was certain that before the end he would find that nugget inside himself and embrace it.

I thought she was crazy.

I’m not going to go into whether or not Vader’s redemption was appropriate story-wise, or if it was hackneyed or anything like that. I don’t care.

I remember him (I’m talking about in the theater now) struggling to his feet, waiting, grabbing Palpatine, and pitching him over the rail. I remember my mother turning toward me and saying, “See? I knew it!”

My mother has always had faith in the inherent goodness of people. I have not. I’ve taken after my father. A person needs to SHOW me they’re good before I believe it. My mom assumes they are until she sees otherwise.

Or that’s the way it was, anyway. These days? My mom’s faith in humanity is starting to crack. I find it depressing. I always wanted to be like her. She never wanted to be like me.

People are behaving Very Badly. I know I’m supposed to hate the action and not the person, and I do try, but come on, folks. Burning down an Islamic center and Mosque being built in Tenessee because, ‘It’s not a place of worship, it’s going to be a training ground for terrorists?’

Only allowing white children to serve as class presidents in a school in Mississippi?

I have no words for this.

And, um, anyone remember that little accident in the Gulf? The one they barely discuss now that the well is “sealed?”

I’m exhausted by it all, but even more than that I’m deeply disappointed.

So here’s what I’m going to do.

Ask you to Watch This and marvel over the fact that the other day 77,000 people tried to get onto this website at once in order to donate and pledge money for random acts of kindness to be performed all over the world.

Let you know that they’ve found a protein that destroys HIV, and they’re working on making it useful for human infections.

This truly kickass guy did something spectacular. He started his own online “university” where, for free, anyone can watch videos on almost any possible subject and learn, learn, learn.

The awesome outweighs the shit, you know. It’s just that the shit-slingers are louder.

Let’s change that.

“I Happen to LIKE the Roller Coaster, Okay?”

Sometimes.

Gimme the facts.

Gimme information.

Don’t make me wait without any, because I’m not good at it.

When they found a shadow on my daughter’s heart during my 18 week ultrasound they said it might be a marker for Down’s, or it could be other things, or it could be nothing. It was hard to tell.

When she was born they declared her healthy and awesome.

The night before we were going to take her home the nurse listened to her heart and told me she was concerned about something she heard. Said it didn’t sound right. She took Livvie to the nursery to wait for the pediatrician to make her rounds, and I paced for hours. I paced my room. I paced the hall. I hovered by the nursery window, just watching her and wanting to hold her. I didn’t know what was wrong. I didn’t know if anything was wrong.

When the doctor came around and listened she didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary and gave us the go ahead to take her home.

She’s had a murmur ever since.

Wednesday the doctor listened to her heart and told me he wanted an echo done of her heart, “just to be on the safe side.”

Ok.

Yes, I quietly came apart at the seams, holding it together until the kids were in bed, and I could finally start crying.

That’s all I ever really need to do, you know. Cry over my worry, cry it out, and let it go. I went to sleep and woke up the next morning feeling far better.

Thank you to all of the Twitter peeps, and you know who you are, who held my hand for a few hours. You’re wonderful friends.

I especially want to thank Ron Earl Phillips for taking the time to email me with tales of his own experiences. It helped. A lot.

Livvie’s ultrasound is Tuesday morning at 840, and I’m going to have to get her on the road by 730. Wish me luck.

In the meantime- perspective is always a good thing. I’m sure “it’s probably nothing,” but that doesn’t matter. Reminders are good for the soul.

And Last-

(Spoiler Free)

Get your Needle yet?

I did.

This issue kicks ass. I loved the first one, and this one does not disappoint.

Chris F. Holm’s novella, The Hitter, at the end whupped my ass. Needle had posted a teaser on their website, and the story was fantastic. Chris is a great guy with a sublime sense of humor, and if you haven’t toodled over to his website do so.

I had a moment of feeling as if I were some craptastic cheese-metal band scheduled to perform after Van Halen in 1980 when I saw my story was placed immediately after David Cranmer’s “The Sins of Maynard Shipley,” because Cranmer is all awesome and shit and created the faboo Beat to a Pulp, but once I swallowed my bile and dove into his story-

Holy smokes.

I am now simply feeling thrilled and honored about being next to him in this magazine.

I haven’t read a story yet that hasn’t been fantastic, and these Needle folk know their stuff with the selection process. I will always be completely humbled that my first published piece of fiction (and the first written since I was a teen) was in this issue.

One word of caution- Sarah Weinman’s “Mirror Image” is one of the best skeeves I ever read. Prepare to shift around in your seat while reading it.

So, yeah, if you don’t have your copy, and you want a copy (you’re missing out if you don’t)- make with the clicky on the image on the sidebar there —-> and order one.

One of the boys riding past noticed me watching and threw up his arm in a, “hey,” which is totally different from a, “hi.” I tossed my arm up at him, watched them ride out of sight, and walked back to the house.

I loved that moment.

Livvie hasn’t had an actual bike yet. She’s been knocking her knees against her chest while riding her tricycle, and she also spends time in her Cozy Coup car. She’s begged for a bike. Her fourth birthday is September 12, and the plan was to find her a real bike so she could learn the ropes.

Never ask your child what color bike they want. Not at this age. She first said pink. Then she wanted purple a few days later. After she changed her mind again I decided that I would make an executive decision and find her a bike that would work best for her size and this terrain, something she could grow into, and to hell with which “girl” color it ended up.

I’ve been on the bike search for months.

Every time we go into a store we check out the bikes. I started taking them down and sitting her on them. She can pedal a 20 inch, but her feet don’t flatten on the ground enough. I thought about a 16 inch. After discussion we decided she’s growing too quickly for a 16 inch.

It’s a bit hard to find an 18 inch bike in the stores.

Time’s a tickin’, there are two weeks left, and my head has been spinning.

Last night I was scanning Twitter while Rich was working at his desk, and I saw that James Durham had tweeted this:

WOOOO-HOOOO! One of the greatest days of my life so far! My wife and I taught our little boy how to ride a bike! What an amazing thrill!!!!

What happened was I had this sudden flash to the first time my father let go, and I stayed upright. I asked James about it, chatted a bit, and delighted in his joy. All I could think about was how I was pedaling my ass off up the street in the direction of a large sedan belonging to the neighbors, and I realized I was doing it all by myself. I had a moment where I wished I could have had eyes in the back of my head to see my father’s face after he let go.

James has taken care of that for me.

I’d wondered about it all. As a kid my bike was my freedom. Once I got going on that thing I didn’t look back until I was almost “too old.” Biking wasn’t the thing back then. I left my bike at sixteen and sat in my car at seventeen, and that was pretty much that.

When Rich took a break from his desk I asked him if he remembered the first time his father or mother let go and he did it alone. he said it was probably his dad, but he didn’t remember the moment. I told him my bike was a Frankenbike my dad had built from discarded pieces, spray painted an atrocious teal in some areas, it had a yellow sparkly banana seat. I eventually got a purple and white 3 speed with hand brakes, and I loved it, but that first bike was the best bike ever.

So we sat on the bed, and he talked about cracking up his first bike. He’d been about six, and as he was riding down the road the frame snapped, and he ended up on his ass. After that he and his friends built what they called “Chopper Bikes” out of spare parts on a regular basis.

I have a bike. It has handlebar streamers. I’m going to be using it soon, I think.

After Rich and I talked I got on Google and did yet another search for 18 inch bikes.

The answer smacked me in the face this time.

For her fourth birthday my daughter will be getting her own BMX. The terrain here needs a fat-tired bike, and she’s a goob (and, as a matter of fact, yelled, “I’m a DORK!” in the back seat of the car the other day) who is rough on her things.

I conceded on the original request for pink.

It didn’t break the bank.

I’ll be able to hear That Sound all of the time.

It comes with training wheels. I can’t wait for the time when we remove them, and I let go to watch her fly.

With that comes her own freedom.

Bittersweet, but oh so exciting. She’s growing up.

If you’re one of those chuckleheads waiting for the Zombie Apocalypse so you can show off how tough you are? You’d better cowboy up right now.

The zombies are here. I think they call them, “Sheeple” these days on this Internet thing, and the gray matter they eat is rational thinking.

Over the past few months I’ve watched fast moving zombies and slow moving zombies spew party lines from every sector, and to tell you the truth, I’m scared to death.

I’ve looked at my children and wanted to apologize to them for launching them into this meltdown. They didn’t ask to be here, and all we can do as parents is give them the strength to handle what might come next.

What that will be? I don’t know. I have my suspicions, and many of them are formed on what went down in Germany in 1933.

See, history always repeats itself. I believe the exact phrase is, “Those who cannot learn from history are doomed to repeat it.”

And people just never learn.

The self-righteous folk spew hate (and I’m looking at all of them here, not just the “Religious Right”), and the apathetic sit by thinking that none of it could be dangerous, because they’re “just words,” and in the end the loudest ones with the best speech writers won’t even have to launch a single weapon.

The hordes are shuffling along behind them unable to think for themselves anymore. They let the folks with the biggest financial wangs tell them how to vote, what to think, and how to feel (which, in case you’re not paying attention, is panicked), and what I’m seeing is the kind of fear that allows for the most charismatic to mold otherwise good people into massive automatons.

The kind that might not march on Poland but will certainly trample those they once called neighbors.

My stockpile will not be canned goods and weapons. My stockpile will be books and willpower. My defense will be my refusal to accept without facts, and I will be teaching that to my children. I will be teaching them how to say, “No, this isn’t right.” I will be teaching them to reach their hand out to their “enemies” to help them up. To stand as a human being, if that even means anything anymore.

I will be teaching them not to bend over and grab ankles for anyone. I will be showing them how to brace themselves for the wave of irrationality to come.

I will be teaching them The Golden Rule and hoping they spread the word.

I will show them how to think for themselves, even if that ultimately means we disagree.

So, to those who spread fear, I have to say it’s working on many levels right now. But I do have a message for you.

“We” are rational. “We” don’t blindly accept everything we hear. “We” educate ourselves.

And “We” won’t fall.

I want one.

Aside from the coolest vehicle ever, though, I stuck around for the story and the characters. So did Rich. We cracked open Season One in February and just finished Season Five a week or so ago.

Now what?

See, this is the problem with burning through several seasons of a TV show. I remember the Post Buffy Letdown well. The problem with that was the series was over. Finis. I watched the last episode on the last disk and felt totally and completely bummed.

Supernatural? Well, here’s the thing. When I snagged the first three seasons everyone was under the impression that the current season, Five, would be the last. Figured we’d plug along and watch, grab Season Five when it was released, and be done with it. Now?

Well feck.

Now a Season Six is on the way. September 24th. The corner of my screen here tells me that today is August 16th.

So I pace inside my skull, wondering how the writers can possibly do this without major suckage, jonesing for more story even while feeling a bit worried about it.

The jonesing is winning, though. See, this is one of the best TV shows ever created. I would have never suspected that.

There were a few issues that struck me, but they didn’t happen very often, and because the show is so balls to the wall fabulous I was totally willing to forgive. I’d call Jennyquarx and say, “Wait. WHY did the writers do such and such… that makes no sense.” And, well, she’d mock me in a loving fashion, and simply by my getting that out of my system it was done and over. I’d put it aside and move on because the ride was just way too much fun.

Rich believes in not one single element of this series, and he hung out for the entire ride. We wrapped it up one night recently when he had a conference call at 1130pm. I was playing the last season on my laptop (Amazon downloads are the Best Thing Ever), and that night because I knew I’d be up late I pushed through the last four episodes. When his call ended at 1am he joined me, and we blearily finished up at about 3am. Couldn’t stop. HAD TO KNOW. When the final episode ended we shut off the laptop and passed out. Didn’t even talk about it.

A few days later we did.

Twice now he’s asked me when the next season begins.

Occasionally we reference something we saw and discuss the idea in depth. Even items from the first season.

It is incredibly strange to me that my husband enjoyed this show so much. I’m grateful for it, because it’s been a hard year, and every week we’d watch a few episodes and forget about how crappy it’s been at times. When summer started we charged through them in earnest since the regular season shows were over. Watching the seasons all at once let us discuss things like character arcs and story lines in a way closer to reading a book because there was no break which would lead to forgetting things. Watching the actors age over the course of “a few months” was food for discussion at times. It wasn’t as noticeable on Jensen Ackles as it was on Jared Padalecki, until afterward when I went back and looked, but it’s sort of fascinating to watch men get their manfaces anyway.

Boys...

... to men

Am I saying that something as ridiculous as a TV series saved 2010 from becoming one colossal bucket of suck?

Yes.

Due to various circumstances we couldn’t do much in the way of activity. Being more or less stuck in the house most of the time can be a recipe for disaster. There were times when I thought it was right around the corner. TV watching is generally a very passive activity, but in this case it wasn’t.

We thought.

We pondered some.

We discussed ideas and theories about things we’d never had reason to before.

We laughed. A LOT.

I cried. Some.

We thought some more.

We devolved into arguing the merits of various weaponry.

We had deep discussions about what we believe and why.

We busted each other scanning classic cars on Craigslist, and I pouted for three days when he wouldn’t get me a $400 ’67 Impala.

We talked about our childhoods, the merits (or not) of siblings, and spent a lot of time talking about dads.

We spent a lot of time hashing out what might happen next.

To me, at least, this is the mark of great fiction. TV, novel, what have you- when something is written so well that themes and ideas stick in your head for as long as these do you’ve created gold. The funny? The funny lasts too. Months later now something will pop into my head, and I’ll start laughing my ass off.

Even in its weakest moments this series is pure brilliance.

Go watch it. I’ll wait.

Because many of the British colonists, such as the Puritans and Congregationalists, were fleeing religious persecution by the Church of England, much of early American religious culture exhibited the more extreme anti-Catholic bias of these Protestant denominations. Monsignor John Tracy Ellis wrote that a “universal anti-Catholic bias was brought to Jamestown in 1607 and vigorously cultivated in all the thirteen colonies from Massachusetts to Georgia.”^[11] Colonial charters and laws contained specific proscriptions against Roman Catholics. Monsignor Ellis noted that a common hatred of the Roman Catholic Church could unite Anglican clerics and Puritan ministers despite their differences and conflicts.

Some of America’s Founding Fathers held anti-clerical beliefs. For example, in 1788, John Jay urged the New York Legislature to require office-holders to renounce foreign authorities “in all matters ecclesiastical as well as civil.” ^[12]. Thomas Jefferson wrote: “History, I believe, furnishes no example of a priest-ridden people maintaining a free civil government,”^[13] and, “In every country and in every age, the priest has been hostile to liberty. He is always in alliance with the despot, abetting his abuses in return for protection to his own.”^[14]

Some states devised loyalty oaths designed to exclude Catholics from state and local office.^[15]

Anti-Catholic animus in the United States reached a peak in the nineteenth century when the Protestant population became alarmed by the influx of Catholic immigrants. Some American Protestants, having an increased interest in prophecies regarding the end of time, claimed that the Catholic Church was the Whore of Babylon in the Book of Revelation.^[16] The resulting “nativist” movement, which achieved prominence in the 1840s, was whipped into a frenzy of anti-Catholicism that led to mob violence, the burning of Catholic property, and the killing of Catholics.^[17] This violence was fed by claims that Catholics were destroying the culture of the United States. The nativist movement found expression in a national political movement called the Know-Nothing Party of the 1850s, which (unsuccessfully) ran former president Millard Fillmore as its presidential candidate in 1856.

How many of you would be willing to admit to a bias against people who are Catholic? I’m not talking about the shenanigans going on with the Clergy or the Papacy. I’m talking about your neighbors. Your co-workers.

Also from Wikipedia-

In the aftermath of 9/11, hate crimes against people of Middle-Eastern descent increased from 354 attacks in 2000 to 1,501 attacks in 2001.^[155] Among the victims of the backlash was a Middle-Eastern man in Houston, Texas who was shot and wounded after an assailant accused him of “blowing up the country”^[156] and four immigrants shot and killed by a man named Larme Price who confessed to killing them as “revenge” for the September 11 attacks.^[157] Although Price described his victims as Arabs, only one was from an Arab country. This appears to be a trend; on account of stereotypes of Arabs, several non-Arab, non-Muslim groups were subjected to attacks in the wake of 9/11, including several Sikh men attacked for wearing their religiously mandated turban.^[158]According to a report prepared by the Arab American Institute, three days after the Oklahoma City bombing, “more than 200 serious hate crimes were committed against Arab Americans and American Muslims. The same was true in the days following September 11.”

Funny. Isn’t it? It’s starting to sound awfully familiar.

Now let’s go over this little item from American history:

Manifest Destiny was the 19th century American belief that the United States was destined to expand across the North American continent, from the Atlantic seaboard to the Pacific Ocean… Manifest Destiny was always a general notion rather than a specific policy. The term combined a belief in expansionism with other popular ideas of the era, including American exceptionalism, Romantic nationalism, and a belief in the natural superiority of what was then called the “Anglo-Saxon race”…

Manifest Destiny had serious consequences for Native Americans, since continental expansion implicitly meant the occupation and annexation of Native American land. The United States continued the European practice of recognizing only limited land rights of indigenous peoples. In a policy formulated largely by Henry Knox, Secretary of War in the Washington Administration, the U.S. government sought to expand into the west through the legal purchase of Native American land in treaties. Indians were encouraged to sell their vast tribal lands and become “civilized”, which meant (among other things) for Native American men to abandon hunting and become farmers, and for their society to reorganize around the family unit rather than the clan or tribe. The United States therefore acquired lands by treaty from Indian nations, usually under circumstances which suggest a lack of voluntary and knowing consent by the native signers.

Advocates of civilization programs believed that the process of settling native tribes would greatly reduce the amount of land needed by the Native Americans, making more land available for homesteading by white Americans. Thomas Jefferson believed that while American Indians were the intellectual equals of whites, they had to live like the whites or inevitably be pushed aside by them.^{[citation needed]}, Jefferson’s belief, rooted in Enlightenment thinking, that whites and Native Americans would merge to create a single nation did not last his lifetime, and he began to believe that the natives should emigrate across the Mississippi River and maintain a separate society, an idea made possible by the Louisiana Purchase of 1803.^{[citation needed]}

In the age of Manifest Destiny, this idea, which came to be known as “Indian Removal“, gained ground. Although some humanitarian advocates of removal believed that American Indians would be better off moving away from whites, an increasing number of Americans regarded the natives as nothing more than savages who stood in the way of American expansion. As historian Reginald Horsman argued in his influential study Race and Manifest Destiny, racial rhetoric increased during the era of Manifest Destiny. Americans increasingly believed that Native Americans would fade away as the United States expanded. As an example, this idea was reflected in the work of one of America’s first great historians, Francis Parkman, whose landmark book The Conspiracy of Pontiac was published in 1851. Parkman wrote that Indians were “destined to melt and vanish before the advancing waves of Anglo-American power, which now rolled westward unchecked and unopposed.”

Who and what gives us the right? No matter what you think about our current President (and trust, I voted for him, but 100% happy I am not) he said this, and he’s right:

We must never forget those who we lost so tragically on 9/11, and we must always honor those who led the response to that attack – from the firefighters who charged up smoke-filled staircases, to our troops who are serving in Afghanistan today. And let us also remember who we’re fighting against, and what we’re fighting for. Our enemies respect no religious freedom. Al-Qaida’s cause is not Islam — it’s a gross distortion of Islam. These are not religious leaders — they’re terrorists who murder innocent men and women and children. In fact, al-Qaida has killed more Muslims than people of any other religion — and that list of victims includes innocent Muslims who were killed on 9/11.

Not to even mention the innocent Muslims and other non-Muslim people from the Middle East who were terrorized or killed by our citizens out of fear and hatred afterward.

After 9/11 my mother told me on the phone about a Sikh boy in her school who was being bullied. Boys do not cut their hair in that religion, and it is wound into the turbans they wear on their heads. This boy had not had his hair cut ever, but due to being targeted by misinformed asshat students his parents removed his turban and cut his hair for his own safety.

You can’t tell me that doesn’t suck.

When I was a kid Schoolhouse Rock had a segment called The Great American Melting Pot. When I was a kid I believed it. I was so naive.

My grandmother came from Russia
A satchel on her knee,
My grandfather had his father’s cap
He brought from Italy.
They’d heard about a country
Where life might let them win,
They paid the fare to America
And there they melted in.

Lovely Lady Liberty
With her book of recipes
And the finest one she’s got
Is the great American melting pot.
The great American melting pot.

America was founded by the English,
But also by the Germans, Dutch, and French.
The principle still sticks;
Our heritage is mixed.
So any kid could be the president.

You simply melt right in,
It doesn’t matter what your skin.
It doesn’t matter where you’re from,
Or your religion, you jump right in
To the great American melting pot.
The great American melting pot.
Ooh, what a stew, red, white, and blue.

America was the New World
And Europe was the Old.
America was the land of hope,
Or so the legend told.
On steamboats by the millions,
In search of honest pay,
Those 19th-century immigrants sailed
To reach the U.S.A.

Lovely Lady Liberty
With her book of recipes
And the finest one she’s got
Is the great American melting pot
The great American melting pot.
What good ingredients,
Liberty and immigrants.

They brought the country’s customs,
Their language and their ways.
They filled the factories, tilled the soil,
Helped build the U.S.A.
Go on and ask your grandma,
Hear what she has to tell
How great to be an American
And something else as well.

Lovely Lady Liberty
With her book of recipes
And the finest one she’s got
Is the great American melting pot
The great American melting pot.

The great American melting pot.
The great American melting pot.

My mother used to shake her head at me because a day would come when instead of fighting going to school I’d be up and at ‘em. Anxious to leave the house, I’d be raring to go, and my mother would say, “What’s gotten into you?”

I’d say, “Iowa Tests start today.”

You see, I knew how to test. Not everyone does. Some folks freeze up when handed a standardized test, but I knew very well how to work them. They were a blast for me, and nothing got me revved more than finishing a section well before, “Pencils down” was announced.

At the time I had no idea how important those scores were to the school system. I had no idea that funding and resources depended on how well we did. I only knew that they were a break from the usual monotony, and I was basically guaranteed a 99th percentile on most of the sections. Woohoo etc…

Whatever.

My mom struggled to get me to do my homework. The teachers struggled to get me to do my homework. The entire group of them was frustrated constantly by the fact that I wouldn’t complete assignments, but I would instead spend my time reading for pleasure in my room… and then I would ace the tests on the subject matter. When my mother asked me why I wouldn’t do the work I told her it was boring. She told me that was too bad. She told me that I still had to do the work- that it was an important way to learn how to think.

I called bullshit and tried to see just how little I could get away with.

Back then teachers were more lenient to an extent. Or savvy. They knew what I was up to. I know they realized I did just enough work to avoid failure. I also know they wanted to knock my head into a wall.

I always considered one of my finest moments the time my senior year English teacher informed us that if we ever used Cliff’s Notes she would know it immediately and issue an automatic “F.” A challenge? I could work with that. I picked up the notes for Cry the Beloved Country, skimmed them, wrote my paper, and received an “A,” along with gushing praise over how well I understood the characters and what Paton was trying to tell us.

Know what? I’ve never actually read that book. My moron quotient astounds me.

I hated school.

My mother had loved it, so she had no frame of reference. I now understand why our perspectives were so different.

I read this article this morning- Valedictorian Speaks out Against Schooling in Graduation Speech

I wanted to set off fireworks, spin her around in circles, and toss confetti.

As a kid I didn’t understand that basic curricula was set by the State and the School Board. As a kid I didn’t understand a lot.

Know what I know now?

There are millions of different types of intelligence. Granted, no one school can address all of them, but to look down on any of them is pure snobbery, and it’s also limiting.

Eliminating vocational programs from schools is one of the biggest examples I can mention. Forcing each child into an academic curriculum is just plain stupid. First, there will always be people who are better with their hands than they are at spitting out facts. Those people? They’re necessary. Is someone who scores a 1530 on the SAT likely to be able to repair your freaking water heater? How about your German import vehicle? Maybe, if they took the time outside of school to dick around on their own, but probably not.

Why are those people considered less important to this society? I can pick up that pencil and fill in the proper circles, all OCD-like making sure I don’t leave a single speck of unfilled area, but if you hand me a wrench, even with instructions, and say, “Do this,” I will be so unsure of myself that I’ll probably panic.

The people I’m talking about? You put that wrench in their hands, and they have all of the confidence in the world.

How is that less spectacular than calculus? How is that less worthwhile than understanding what the fuck Swift was saying about society when he wrote Gulliver’s Travels?

When I met my husband he didn’t have a single book for pleasure reading in his house. He had a ton of technical manuals, but no fiction, no biographies, nothing that one would pick up just to read. My first reaction was confusion. When I got to know him I realized he was a person more interested in doing for himself than reading about what others have done.

Rock the hell on.

My mother used to tell me that our first twelve years of schooling were to teach us how to think and prepare us for college.

I don’t know about you, but when I got to college it was an eye opener.

College thinking was in no way addressed in my first twelve years. I loved college. I asked my mother why they hadn’t taught us that way before college, and she told me that they were required to give us a well-rounded education on multiple subjects, and they basically didn’t have the time.

I’m sorry, but that sucks.

It sucks that our teachers are no longer allowed to teach actual subjects and instead must teach to test well. It sucks that schools no longer foster talent wherever it might be found, be it auto shop, home ec, mechanical drawing, (don’t get me started on music), or any of the academics. Kids these days supplement their learning at home when they have the time.

It amuses me that as book bags get heavier and heavier, causing back problems in small children, the quantity of retained information is reduced.

I don’t mean, “ha ha funny.” I mean facepalm.

Until something changes a great deal of kids will despise school and not even know why. Ok, sure, there’s the whole interpersonal thing with beings who are hormonal and growing and ready to bounce off the walls when they’re not sleeping twelve hours a day, but the real reason kids these days hate school so much?

Erica Goldson put her finger right on it.

Here’s my plea.

Dump No Child Left Behind. Let the teachers teach. Offer ideas for lesson plans, but let the teachers run with the interests of their current students. Realize millions of things can be teaching moments, and let the teachers address them instead of having to stay on topic. Stop forcing small children to do six hours of homework a night so they can find their own interests and possibly find their zen.

Understand that “intelligence” is not confined to what is presented in a lecture and barfed back out on paper.

I said, “You know, I’ve been watching this for over twenty years, and I remember back when the shows were more information than gore-fests over attacks and bites. This episode isn’t doing it for me at all. I like the shows where they actually teach you something better.”

Then, last night, he said to me, “You know, after watching several days of this I’m pretty sure I never want to swim in the ocean again.”

He was serious.

I thought he was joking.

Nope.

The man was dead serious.

You can laugh, if you like, but this isn’t funny in the least.

See, in all of the years we’ve been together this is the first year he hasn’t gone off and done his own thing while I watch. This is a man who is going to be forty-seven years old on his next birthday, and he’s thought nothing over his entire life of jumping into the ocean on trips to the beach.

Now he’s done.

And I’m pissed.

I can respect a person’s fears. For chrissakes, I’m scared of clowns and scarecrows. What’s the chance of my ever encountering a homicidal clown or a walking scarecrow?

Right.

But I was trying to reason with him last night, and I even gave him the old, “More people die from bee stings every year than are attacked by sharks, let alone killed by them. You survived a very bad hornet sting a few weeks ago. You’re good.”

Didn’t make a difference. He told me since he’s been in the ocean at least a hundred times over the years, he’s had the experience, and he’s ok with not going again.

Did I mention I’m pissed?

I’m pretty sure I was around seven or eight years old when the Shark Bug got ahold of me. They fascinated me. Beautiful, ancient, completely alien to this landwalker. I sought out all information I could find.

I never stayed out of the water.

Over the years myths were debunked and more information was gained, and my appreciation for them got even bigger. I never, ever stayed out of the water.

I did leave the water once. Swimming at Wrightsville Beach, I was in about seven feet of murky water, deeper than I usually go because if I can’t touch bottom I don’t feel in control, and I was having a blast. Suddenly every hair on the back of my neck stood up, as did the wet hair on my scalp, and without making a big deal out of anything I simply returned to the beach.

I’m not one to argue with Lizard Brain.

That didn’t keep me out of the water either. I went back in later and stayed closer to the beach.

So this morning when I got up I started to mosey around the Internet, and I found this article on Huffington Post, written by Chris Palmer and Peter Kimball, about the sensationalism involved in Shark Week and its programming every year. The damage it’s doing. How it’s one more example of society’s lust for in your face entertainment rather than the teaching example it could be.

SHOULD BE.

And they’re right, in my opinion.

Did you know shark finning is still allowed (via a legal loophole) off the coast of North Carolina? I had no idea until I was alerted a few weeks back and wrote my Congresspeople asking them to vote to end it.

I received an email reply from Senator Kay Hagan’s office.

Thank you for contacting me regarding the Shark Conservation Act of 2009. I appreciate hearing your thoughts on this important issue.

The Shark Conservation Act (S. 850/ H.R. 81) was introduced in the House of Representatives on January 6, 2009, and was referred to the Committee on Natural Resources. The bill would amend the High Seas Driftnet Fishing Moratorium Protection Act and the Magnuson-Stevens Fishery Conservation and Management Act to improve conservation of sharks by strengthening provisions regarding shark finning, a practice that involves cutting off shark fins and returning the live animals back to the ocean. This legislation closes a loophole that currently permits a vessel to transport fins obtained illegally as long as the sharks were not finned aboard that vessel. On March 2, the House agreed to H.R. 81 by a voice vote, and the legislation was referred to the Senate Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation.

I appreciate your concerns regarding the protection of sharks, and I pledge to keep your thoughts in mind as I review the legislation.

Again, thank you for contacting my office. It is truly an honor to represent North Carolina in the United States Senate, and I hope you will not hesitate to contact me in the future should you have any further questions or concerns.

Can you believe this?

The best programming I’ve seen over the course of the past week was the very first show, Ultimate Air Jaws, because while the photographer seemed to have a bit of a death wish (taunting is taunting no matter how well meant), the program did a wonderful job of showing the majesty of these animals and might be one of those things that could prod people to respect them for their very existence alone.

The rest of the programming has been one bit of Shark Porn after another (and thank you to Patric Douglas of sharkdivers.blogspot.com for that term as well as leading me to the HuffPost article in the first place).

After Rich made his declaration last night I paid even closer attention to what I was watching. It’s a shadow of its former self, this yearly extravaganza, and I think I might be done.

Or maybe every year from now on I’ll write one of these posts during the week while watching.

via sharkdivers.blogspot.com

And I’m damn sure going to keep emailing my Congresspeople.

Opioid medications Do Things to your brain that you don’t even notice. Oh sure, other people will notice. But you’re just muddling along, doing the daily grind, and after awhile you get so used to The New You that none of it seems out of place.

The first thing I’m going to say is that at least in my case, stepping down the dosage was the right thing to do. Cold Turkey could have possibly killed me, so there’s that, but the helpful thing is that while withdrawal has sucked in various ways I’ve gotten off easy. It hasn’t been that bad.

I’ve dealt with worse.

What I really want to talk about is the fact that I’m back.

Oh sure, my appetite has returned, and I’m about ready to eat the dog if she stands still long enough. My appetite is a large part of who I am. And I’ve gotten back the two inches of height that I lost. Constant pain had apparently bowed my back enough that I had lost two whole inches, even trying to stand up straight. In December when I was measured at the doctor’s office I almost burst into tears. As my friend Jennyquarx said, “Glad to hear you are the towering bitch not to be messed with again.”

And, you know, I laughed. Then I was lying in bed that night, listening to Rich fall asleep (sometimes he whistles), and my life flashed before my eyes.

Not in that, “Holy fuck I’m about to die,” kind of fashion. I was lying there thinking about what things are important to me about who I am, and what I am, and various moments from my life started coming to me.

I started laughing.

See, there’s been a whole literal FUCK-TON of awful.

So what?

Oh sure, what doesn’t kill us makes us stronger. Trite but true. All of that awful shit shaped me in some fashion. No denying it.

But for every single second of horrible there have been months and months of not so bad, and there have also been weeks and weeks of absolutely awesome.

I am thirty-nine years old.

These things occurred to me:

In the cleaning out of my mother’s house many of my old comic books were found, and when Mom told me I said, ‘YAY!’ I am a dork. I am a dork with her own sword who really wants the new light sabers they’re selling that have sound effects and used to attend Star Trek conventions (never costumed) and dresses in super hero t-shirts and got choked up the other day at Target when her daughter pointed and said, “Look! It’s Iron Man!” So lying in the dark I thought to myself, “You know, if you had been born male you might never have gotten laid. Maybe.”

And the giggles started.

So I started wondering about my, erm, personal past and what could have possibly been attractive to guys. To be absolutely honest I’ve only ever been in a relationship with one guy who could be considered as big a geek as myself, and I married that one, and we divorced. Everyone else has been of the not-so-nerdy persuasion.

I was always under the assumption that guys liked self-confidence. I really haven’t had much. I do remember a very good friend of mine, twenty years ago, telling me I should drop The Mask for good. He was right, of course. It’s been twenty years, but I get it now.

I’m not ashamed of who I am.

Am I tough? In a way. I wouldn’t call myself a towering bitch at this point, but I have been.

Lying there I thought I might have it figured out.

Who the fuck am I?

I’m a chick who has a sense of humor, laughs at the absurdity of it all- delights in it, is absolutely willing to mock herself when she’s stupid, embraces the ridiculous, and enjoys the bizarre. I prefer not to take life too seriously, and the unfortunate thing is that over the past couple of years I have been.

Rich told me via email when he saw me on Match.com that there was something in my eyes that made him want to know more.

Oh- he knows more now.

It’s not always been pleasant, but he sure does know more.

The truly wonderful thing is that it’s due to him that I know more now, too.

There are times when he still doesn’t “get” me, like when I take squealing joy in well-filmed zombie mayhem (When I grow up I want to be a special effects crewperson), but rather than humor me he flat out tells me he doesn’t understand it.

I’m sorry, but that’s fabulous.

He’s not enamored with everything about me, and he loves me anyway.

I don’t understand his addiction to real estate, and why it’s so fascinating to him. I love him anyway.

As a kid I was so different that to combat the mocking I went full-on weirdo. It was my only defense at the time, and looking back now I’m not ashamed.

I’m happy.

I’m still a weirdo.

That’s perfectly fine.

I laid in the dark and giggled and smiled, thanking the stars that the fog had cleared, and I was able to finally see.

When The Fellowship of the Ring was released several of my friends and I would refer to Boromir as The Whiny Bitch.

(Yes, I’m totally geeking here. Bear with me.)

Yeah, he did whine a lot.

But if you take a moment to watch, THIS is who he is.

He keeps getting up.

Me? It finally dawned on me the other night that regardless of everything, I actually do still keep getting up.

I have no armor but my sense of humor, my refusal to let being different or a dork equal being less, and willpower born of sheer stubbornness. Screw being a whiny bitch. I’m going to keep getting up.

When a person finally realizes their power the laughter comes from joy.

I really, finally like who I am.

Booya.

What. The fuck.

Every teacher I have ever known works their asses off. Staying up past midnight grading papers, creating quizzes and tests, making lesson plans…

Working through holidays. Getting second jobs- sometimes throughout the year, sometimes only in the summer.

Using their own money to purchase classroom supplies because the budget wasn’t passed by ignorant citizens who don’t understand that passing the school budget is an investment in their own future. Your local elementary could spew out the next great scientist- or architect, chef, graphic designer, musician, home run king… God Forbid we let the schools have enough money to keep electives in the curriculum.

Granted, the school boards seem to be going insane, and it would be welcome to see them take pay cuts and not, for instance, pay Head Janitors more than teachers with 20 years under their belts, but really folks. Teachers are glorified babysitters? They’re getting a free ride on tax money?

Get a grip.

I wrote this letter in January. I hadn’t sent it yet because I was having trouble with my printer, but I’m going to share it with you, print it out, and freaking mail it.

All it takes is one good teacher, folks. Just one.

And there are millions.

January 27, 2009

Dear Mr. Spille,

I really hope this letter finds you well and happy.

The other day as I was beginning to type my very first novel I was sorting everything in my head, and I thought, “Never introduce a brand new character at the very end of a piece of writing. It jars the reader out of the story, and they become confused. Mr. Spille told me that.”

I know that “alot” is not a word because I used to sit at my desk in 9th grade: front row, next to the windows, and I would look up and to the right and see that poster hanging near the ceiling. I know what a gerund is and how it works because you worked and worked with me to get me to understand its place in writing. You also spent a great deal of time forcing me to correct my “wimpy indents” by placing my fingers on the paper and having me start to print after my fingers.

I have to let you know that aside from this letter, business letters I used to write for employers, and the book I’ve started, I don’t indent at all anymore. I know I have that handy “tab” function on the keyboard, but it’s sort of annoying. TAB. Type. TAB. The hell with it.

The reason I can do this is because you taught me to love grammar and writing, and while I am essentially a grammar fiend at this point, in my own daily writing I screw with it on a regular basis. I do it for tempo and flow, I do it to illustrate points, and sometimes I do it just to be ridiculous.

I have no idea how you did your job. I have flirted many times with the idea of becoming a teacher, but then I slap myself and remember that I dislike most teenagers and cannot stand people who prefer to remain ignorant than try to learn. I am very grateful, however, that you chose to become a teacher. Most of all I am grateful that I was lucky enough to be assigned to your class. You were the first teacher to treat me like a person rather than a student who barfed out more papers for grading. You allowed me to be sarcastic with you in class without reacting as if I was disrespecting you, and since I had a fairly fragile self esteem that was important. I suddenly had a verbal sparring partner in the classroom for the first time, you gave back better than I lobbed out, and I never felt like I was annoying or an inconvenience. The first day I brought you an apple to be a smartass, and you laughed, it made a world of difference in my personality. I kept leaving apples on your desk because it was bothering the snot out of some of the other kids, and hey, anything I could do to annoy them I would.

You loaned me Joshua- Son of None, and oh holy cow a teacher just trusted me with one of his own possessions. That book was so fantastic that when I was in my early 20s I combed the used bookstores in Philadelphia until I found a copy. Thank you for that book.

You really taught me to understand that Shakespeare should be seen and not read, even if you did edit out the racy parts of Romeo and Juliet so the parents wouldn’t have conniptions.

You also had the best wedding story I’ve ever heard. I’m still impressed with the time and money savings.

I came back once to visit after I started in Collingswood, but I didn’t want to be a pest so I stopped visiting. You had new students to deal with, new brains to slap into shape, and I was afraid I’d bother you. It’s been 24 years since I graduated from Oaklyn. I think it’s way past time to thank you for everything.

You are one of the primary reasons I am a writer. I might not be fantastic every time I churn something out, and sometimes it just flat out sucks, but I am a writer. It’s what I do, it’s what I am, and it’s what I think about the percentage of time that I am not thinking about my kids and running the house (Ok, sometimes even when I’m thinking of those things I’m writing at the same time). I have not been paid, I have received encouraging rejection letters, I have written work for others, and I try to do it almost every day.

Thank you.

In Gratitude-

Julie Ann Summerell – OJHS Class of ’86