Parents

Go read Elisabeth's post about her daughter's friends (if she hasn't taken it down--she's worried about their privacy). You could go in lots of directions commenting on this situation: homophobia, teen sexuality, the place of the legal system in private life... But what struck me most were these lines:

Her mother, alas, thinks it's her job to warn people against her daughter. She tried to warn me. I told her I liked her daughter and would try to help her. She warned F's parents, who apparently acted much as I did for a while, but then--didn't.

One of the defining features of my life has been the essential knowledge that wherever I was, whatever trouble I got into, if I called my father, he would come and get me (you've been infinitely supportive too, Mom, but when it comes to plucking me off a Nepali mountaintop, somehow Daddy always came to mind). I've disagreed with my parents, fought with my parents, and, I'm quite sure, been disapproved of by my parents, but I always knew that my parents were there for me, no matter what. In turn, I know I will always be there for my parents: right now my sister and I disapprove of some of the choices my dad is making, but if the phone rings and he says he needs me, I'll be on the next plane.

So I just profoundly do not get parents who don't support their children.

As soon as I write that sentence, I start to nuance it. I've seen the tragedy of parents who were unable to support their children through no fault of their own; I realize that the ability to get on a plane and rescue a child presumes a certain financial capacity; I know there are plenty of parents who don't support their children; I think of a relative who was a junkie and how the rest of the family begged her parents to stop supporting her.

But that relative actually puts my point into sharper focus. We wanted her parents to stop giving her money because she was spending the money on drugs; we never wanted them to stop loving her. When she called me up and told me she was marrying her boyfriend in the judge's office because that was the only way they could have conjugal visits once he was sentenced and went to prison, I tried my damndest to talk her out of it. I called her mother, even though I'd promised not to. I desperately researched prison policies. But then, when she refused to budge, I put on a nice dress, bought her a bouquet of flowers, drove her to court, met the boyfriend in his orange jumpsuit, watched the guard take off the handcuffs, witnessed the marriage, and took her out to lunch, while he went back to his cell. There were lots of things I wouldn't do for her, but this I could do, so I did.

I don't know how I got to this relative--I planned to write about a dear friend who died of AIDS in 1992 (M is named after him, in part), and how devastating it was to watch him try and try again to make contact with his parents, and then finally accept the fact that to them he was already dead, and his friends were now his family.

Perhaps there are things my children could do that would make me stop loving and supporting them, but, honestly, I can't imagine what they would be. I don't know how I would respond if they committed terrible crimes; I'm sure I would condemn the crimes, but I would think that in that situation they would need me to love them even more, and I hope that I would. But to abandon my own daughter because she dated another girl? That is just inconceivable to me, and so so tragic.

Men and Lesbians

Jonathan Richman goes dancing at the lesbian bar and Bad New Hughes goes to the lesbian party.

I'm not sure words can express my love for Jonathan Richman. We used to see him in Berkeley at the Starry Plough, and then we saw him at Slim's, I think, and every time we see him in Red State Capital City I feel better. I love his striped shirt, and his guitar, and his dorky dancing. I love how his songs limn the landscapes of my youth. I love that he pre-punked punk and now lives up in the Sierra foothills amongst the aging hippies. I love that he laments the death of parties and rhymes Picasso and asshole. I even love how he sits in that tree in There's Something About Mary.

Once at the Starry Plough, I was standing right in front by the stage, and he stared straight into my eyes for the whole set with that hang dog "I would be the best boyfriend you ever broke up with" look. I was ready to go backstage and offer him every inch of my body, but I thought S wouldn't be so happy about that. I wasn't imagining it, either, because my step-brother was way in the back of the room, and at the end of the set he said, "What was with you and Jonathan? He was just staring at you the whole night!"

Then there's Bad News Hughes. Like I always say, he just makes me laugh.

E Redeems Herself

"Mama, I want to hug you for loving me."

Maternal Dismay

As I snuggled with E this morning, we had a conversation that I tried to remember so I could blog it verbatim, but unfortunately the rest of the early morning erased the details (probably it was the trying to decide whether M should go to school, since she threw up dramatically around midnight, but then slept fine for the rest of the night) (her stomach hurts so she's staying home, though I suspect there will be happy playing by early afternoon).

Anyway, all I recall now is the gist which involved E insisting that only boys can make computers because computers are hard to make (this despite me pointing out that our friend P, who is a woman, though I must admit I called her a girl, used to work in a factory making computers).

Also, she asked me what those wiggly lines on my forehead were and why she didn't have any.

Way to endear yourself to your aging feminist mother, kid!

Crush

I have a bit of a crush. It's on someone outrageously inappropriate but quite adorable. Luckily, he's inappropriate enough that the idea of actually acting on my crush is inconceivable. Plus I have no interest in acting on it.

He has a crush on me too, I'm quite sure. I think it's harder for him than it is for me.

What I like, though, about having a crush, is the thrill it adds to daily life. Sometimes I think I might see him, and then I have to decide whether to take additional steps that might make seeing him more likely. Sometimes I do; sometimes I don't. It's a bit disappointing when I think I might see him and then I don't. It feels quite triumphant when I think I might see him and then I do.

Sometimes he just shows up, and I get all excited, but I can't show it, because we can't admit our crushes. We have to play calm, cool, and collected. I think I do a better job than he does, but maybe I'm deceiving myself. Certainly he does not do a very good job.

Yesterday I drove downtown to do an errand and as I was waiting to turn left, he turned right onto the street I was on from the street I was turning into. I didn't think he saw me, but I got all excited. Five minutes later, as I was driving home, there he was again, driving the other way. This time he saw me and honked. I smiled, waved, and kept going. Then I wondered if he had turned around so he could see me. Then I wondered if I should have stopped and talked to him. This crush thing can take a lot of mental energy.

[Of course S knows. In fact, he's the one who told me it was ok to blog about it.]

It Was the Dad

I guess in some sick way, I'm glad it was the dad. When they said the girls were not sexually assaulted, just stabbed, that seemed so out of whack that it opened new vistas of parental terror. Not that the idea of your child being sexually assaulted and then murdered is not terrifying, just that it is tragically familiar. Random killings of second graders in the woods would take us to new frontiers of horror, and I'm glad we don't have to go there. Then again, I guess we have been there with the Atlanta child murders. And fathers killing their daughters is horrifying enough.

Cheery blogging for a cheery world...

Too Sad

The town where the two girls were murdered sounds a lot like Red State Capital City Suburb, though it's not (not Red State Capital City Suburb, that is). My neighbor and I just decided to let her daughters and M walk home from school on their own. There's a big difference between biking alone through a wooded park and walking home from school down one of the town's main streets with all the other kids, not to mention a sprinkling of parents (and this is a town where all the parents watch out for all the kids). Still, it makes you shiver and rage and want to hold onto your kids for the rest of their lives.

Another Inspirational Celebrity Marriage

Uh-huh, Renee, I'm sure it will last. Definitely. No question. Enjoy your honeymoon!

Something Funny

I don't think my readers overlap too much with Jackie's, so I just need to let the rest of you in on this because it's too funny not to share. Like, laugh out loud funny. [Link from Jackie.]

The Rest of My Mother's Day Presents

M's essay:

If I entered my mom in a Mother of the Year Contest she would probably win. I think she would win because she takes my sister and me to lots of fun places. Also she would win because she has lots of cool accomplishments like [accomplishments omitted to preserve privacy]. Last, my mom would win because she's an overall great mom. That's what I would tell the judges.

My mom would compete against all mothers at [M's] School. Her prize would be free maids.

M's poem:

My mom makes my lunch and dinner,
Does my laundry,
Helps clean my room.
She's barely ever mad
But always listens.

My favorite thing is the last two lines of the poem. In fact, I get mad all the time, but it's nice to know that when push comes to shove (or the teacher is looking over her shoulder), that's not what she thinks about.

The Ubiquitous Mother's Day Post

I always prided myself on the fact that my family of birth didn't celebrate Mother's Day, though I'm not quite sure why. That is, I'm not quite sure why we didn't celebrate it, nor am I quite sure why I was so proud of the fact. It's not like I'm anti-Hallmark holidays--we go over the top for Valentine's Day. I guess I just thought (and I think my mother thought before me) that the whole thing was a bit hypocritical: dump on mom for 364 days of the year and then dump flowers on her the second Sunday in May.

I maintained the anti-Mother's Day stance for a few years into my own maternity, but then came the hegemony of babysitters, preschool, and now public school, where from May 1 on, the efforts of small children seem wholly devoted to producing cards and baubles with which to appreciate their mothers. And now I have succumbed. I don't even feebly whisper "but we don't celebrate Mother's Day..." It's inescapable. Besides, it makes the children so happy. Especially when they get to have secrets from me.

So this morning, when M and I came back from our weekly Sunday morning swim practice (M)/run (me)/buy the New York Times (us) expedition, I had to wait on the porch till they were ready. Then both girls ushered me in to a kitchen table that held cinnamon biscuits (my request), flowers (picked out by E on a secret Sunday morning expedition with S), a card from E that said "DEAR MOM, I HOPE YOU HAVE A FUN MOTHER'S DAY" (apparently S wrote out the words and E copied them in about three minutes), a paper box M made in school with a different line about me on each side (an interesting thing about me is that I've been to more than ten countries; something I do is take care of M and E) except for the side where she'd drawn a picture of me in my pink shirt and lipstick (her favorite look), and inside the box four chocolate kisses (two dark chocolate and two caramel, she specified) and Fimo earrings she'd made herself. And M says she has a present for me for every meal.

So Happy Mother's Day Grandma and Grammy! And I'm sorry I can't share my chocolate kisses with you, but M and E already ate them.

The Public Psyche (Gratuitous Bush-Bashing)

A friend recently observed that everyone she encounters these days seems totally stressed out and anxious. "I think it's because Bush is president," she said.

I've been thinking about the ridiculous numbers of people I know who are taking Wellbutrin, Paxil, Prozac, etc. Partly it's medical fashion, of course. A college student I know went to the clinic because he'd been feeling down. The doctor, whom he'd never met, administered a test, scored it, told him he was depressed, gave him a Wellbutrin prescription, and sent him on his way. Nice.

On the other hand, it seems like the times are simply depressing. If you don't have a great built-in endorphin system, a naturally cheery disposition, or simply a stoic ability to persevere, just the newspaper can be enough to send you down into the abyss. I guess it's not suprising that so many people need help just to make it from one day to the next.

Eating Spring

We went to a very nice restaurant last night. It was something of a business dinner for S. I ate a risotto cake with peas, asparagus, lima beans, and morels. If anyone remembers those few days when my blog was green, it looked that: green. It tasted green. It tasted like spring. It was delicious.

[And in election news, our London district (do they call them districts in England?), Hornsey and Wood Green, went Lib Dem. Not surprisingly.]

Election

I'm very curious what will happen in the British election today. Like everyone else, I assume Labour will win, but I wonder what the margin will be and, especially, how the Lib Dems will do. My sense is that margins matter a lot more in British politics. Clearly they matter not at all here...

I wish Tony Blair had lived up to his potential. Just like I wished Bill Clinton had lived up to his...

Church and State

I needed to sign a document, get the signature notarized, get the notarization certified, and get an apostille. I still don't know what an apostille is, but I now have one. This endeavor took me to the Red State Capital City Suburb County Courthouse, the Red State Department of State, a bank, the Red State Capital City County Courthouse, and back to the Red State Department of State.

Partly this is because I screwed up: I didn't realize that after I got the signature notarized at the Suburb County Courthouse, I had to get it certified. So I showed up at the Department of State, and started to get angry that they wouldn't give me the apostille, but then I quickly realized that it was my fault (I had skipped a line of my extremely detailed instructions), so I was nice, especially because the woman at the Department of State so nicely explained to me how to get notarized again (bank), certified (City County Courthouse), and apostilled (back to the Department of State). I was even nice to the meter maid who was printing out my parking ticket as I sprinted back to my car at the City County Courthouse. It wasn't her fault that once you hit print, the ticket cannot be rescinded.

I was not nice to the collection of people who were PRAYING right inside the City County Courthouse. Yes, PRAYING. Inside the courthouse. Apparently it was some National Day of Prayer. Apparently right inside the City County Courthouse, between the door and the metal detector, is public property. Apparently you are thus allowed to stand there with a big sign that says National Day of Prayer and PRAY very loudly, as if you are in CHURCH, at all the people who are coming and going on their courthouse business, which would be STATE business, as it were, metaphorically speaking, though not quite such state business as one might conduct, say, at the Department of State.

Uh, separation? Of church and state? Last time I checked, it was still nominally the law. Wasn't it?

Oh Puh-leez

Do they really think anyone is going to believe this? Funny how this story doesn't seem to appear on the NY Times, Washington Post, LA Times, or Independent websites. My god, it's not even on MSNBC or Fox. In fact, why do we even need Fox, when we have CNN to loyally parrot propaganda?

[Yes, I have so much to do today that I can barely breathe, hence the compulsive blogging.]

One Small Step Against Racism

S couldn't believe she said "racist bitch." I could. I couldn't believe she said "rickshaw." Then again, I guess I could.

Way to go, Amber!

Edited to add: This story might make a little more sense if you know that Amber is white and A is Chinese.

More on Pharmacists

Thalia and Elisabeth say, essentially, that the difference between Thoreau and the Phamacists "for Life" is that Thoreau was acting against the state while the pharmacists aren't doing their jobs. This is actually where I started when I began thinking about it. Tax resistors, conscientious objectors, and bus boycotters all act against the state (actually, I don't know enough about the bus boycotters, though I sing the song to the girls all the time--was that law or policy?), while the pharmacists act against their employers.

But then I thought about other people who don't do their jobs in service of what they believe is right. The first thing that came to mind was the town clerks who gave marriage licenses to gay couples. Then I thought about white doctors who treated black patients despite segregation. The difference between these employees and the pharmacists, though, is that they were breaking rules in what you might call a positive way--doing things they were not supposed to do--whereas the pharmacists are negative--not doing what they are supposed to do. This made me feel all warm and fuzzy about how liberals expand rights and possibilities, while conservatives limit them.

However, the town clerk example also can be seen as a protest against the state, while doctors owe allegiance to Hippocrates before the state (or at least, they're supposed to). As well, neither of those examples addresses the status of corporate employees, which is what I presume most pharmacists are.

Then I thought about restaurants, as I often do. If a teetotaling waiter wants to refuse to serve liquor, that's their right. Then they will get fired. Fine, fire the pharmacists. But, a restaurant owned by a teetotaler can refuse to serve liquor, despite the fact that liquor is legal. Probably a bad business move, but that's their choice. So can a private pharmacy refuse to prescribe certain drugs? I don't see why not, though I don't know enough about pharmaceutical rules and regulations to say. In other words, if the pharmacy accepts or even supports the pharmacist's refusal to dispense birth control or the morning-after pill, that's the way it is, though of course, as Alexx points out, our recourse is to boycott the pharmacy, as indeed we should.

I'm sure there's some fuzzy thinking in here, probably a lot, but I wanted to lay out where my thoughts went. When it comes down to it, I'm less angry with the pharmacists than I am with cowardly coporations and the absurd American practice of allowing religion to hobble science.

Thoreau at the Drugstore

I have willfully not been paying attention to the anti-birth control pharmacists, though Bitch Ph.D. nailed them almost a week ago. Then yesterday, as usual a good two weeks after a New York Times article on the same topic, Red State Capital City Newspaper had a front page story on pharmacists refusing to dispense the morning after pill, spotlighting Pharmacists for Life International (whose homepage proudly links to lots of articles).

I’m having trouble with this one. The secular science-based feminist in me is going ballistic: This is medicine! This is a woman’s right to receive medical treatment! This is doctor’s prescriptions! This is no place for imposing personal beliefs on workplace responsibilities! This is choice! And I really do believe all those things, passionately.

At the same time, I’m thinking about civil disobedience. I’m thinking about Thoreau, and Woolworth’s sit-ins, and conscientious objectors, and tax resistance. I’m thinking about trespassing at nuclear power plants, and refusing to leave the shanties we built to protest our university’s investments in South Africa. And I know this is what they want me to think, these pharmacists who believe they are standing up for what is right in the face of injustice. I know I’m falling for their appropriation of our rhetoric.

But if I have accepted, a la Thoreau, that “if [injustice] is of such a nature that it requires you to be the agent of injustice to another, then I say, break the law,” can I really stipulate that mine is the only definition of injustice?

Is this hopeless moral relativism? Am I failing the cause? I think these pharmacists are so unethical, so manipulative, so wrong, but that is because I disagree with their position so profoundly. Can I really condemn their tactics? I’m not quite sure.

The Last Passover Post

Very Nice Secretary Who Probably Only Knows Two Jewish People Of Whom I Am One: Becca, did you see the cake?

Me: Yes, but it's Passover and I'm not eating cake.

Secretary: Oh, I'm so sorry, I totally forgot. [pause] There are pretzels too!

****

I always think that Passover will be a nice opportunity to take a break from my major carbs and sweets addictions and feel a little healthier, maybe even lose a few of those winter pounds. Then I rediscover my nemesis, the most delicious thing ever, more compulsively consumable than salt and vinegar potato chips: matzoh spread with unsalted butter and sprinkled with kosher salt. Mmm.

And then on Thursday, tired of lack of sweets, I made meringues which really deserve a higher Passover profile because they are so delicious and so easy (beat 2 egg whites with 1/8 teaspoon cream of tartar and 1/8 teaspoon salt till stiff - beat in 3/4 cup sugar - fold in 3/4 cup chocolate chips - put good-sized spoonfuls onto a baking sheet covered with brown paper [I cut up a brown paper bag, because that's how my mother did it] - bake for 25 minutes at 300 degrees). More mmm.

****

Finally, congratulations to M for her first year of full Passover observance, completely self-motivated. She says the only hard parts were lunch at school, surrounded by her friends and their sandwiches, and one day at afterschool when they served pretzels for snack (though the head of her afterschool gets total Red State Capital City Suburb appreciation of diversity points for letting M help her plan the week's snacks, to make sure there would always be something she could eat).