December 3, 2016

Blue Lives and Black Lives: What's in a Slogan?

Over Thanksgiving, my daughter came home from college. While driving through our neighborhood, she noticed a "Blue Lives Matter" flag and said she'd like to talk to the homeowner, or perhaps drop off a letter, about why it is a harmful symbol. I asked her if she'd be interested in putting a message together because I, too, would like to read it.

My daughter brings a foundation to this subject, which includes: A research assistant internship with the Metropolitan Planning Council (emphasis on housing segregation issues), and a double major at DePaul University (Public Policy Studies and History of Art and Architecture). In addition, she has personally observed the Cook County Circuit Bond Court, volunteers with prison support groups, writes to people who are incarcerated for political and non-political crimes, has participated in several anti-discrimination protests, and strives to reach people with differing views on police funding/abolition without alienating them. Here is her letter:

Dear Neighbor,

I noticed the "Blue Lives Matter" flag in front of your house and hoped I could talk to you about it. It is probably safe to assume that you feel strongly on this topic because someone you love is a police officer, or because you value the services the police provide to your family and community. It makes sense, therefore, why you feel it's important to stand up for police in what appears to be a hostile climate of anti-police sentiment. I want to mention some things that I hope will explain this climate, and why I think your flag is harmful.

"Black Lives Matter" began as a slogan, a hashtag, on the internet, created by black activists in response to the police shootings of unarmed black men and women. It is simple and to the point: In this country, black people face certain challenges and obstacles based on the color of their skin that non-black people do not face.

May 6, 2016

Duck, Death and the Tulip: An Uncommonly Tender Illustrated Meditation on the Cycle of Life

Review by Maria Papova.

Wolf Erlbruch: Duck, Death and the Tulip
Credit: Wolf Erlbruch's Duck, Death and the Tulip
"The German children’s book author and illustrator Wolf Erlbruch offers a wonderfully warm and assuring answer in Duck, Death and the Tulip — a marvelous addition to the handful of intelligent and imaginative children’s books about death and loss."

Read Papova's insightful article, with lovely illustrations, via Brain Pickings.

May 1, 2016

My Sobriety Thing

Spring in Chicago on the 606
A friend recently asked, “Do you do anything to transition from work to relaxation without alcohol? If you feel comfortable sharing it in writing, that is. What you have pointed out in the past is very true for me. Daily life is hard and I need something to look forward to at the end of the day. Alcohol becomes the habitual something.”

My answer: Sort of. The area of habit and behavior regulation is well-trod and people are vocal in their support of, or opposition to, various methods. This post isn’t an exhaustive essay or instruction manual. I'm speaking for myself only; answering a question posed by a friend.

My Sobriety Thing

It is 10 months for me. I've figured out how to make the transition from work-work-work to relax/take the edge off at 6 pm-ish. Mentally, this ability is essential so I can sleep and wake up and do it all over again. Otherwise, I'd drive until I ran out of gasoline somewhere in Iowa.

In no particular order:

January 27, 2016

Pom Poms

We huddled on the floor in her room as Beth whispered, words tumbling out. Her eyes locked on mine, she tried all at once to impress and ask for approval. I knew little about the subject, it could have been car brakes instead of arousal and sex. At 13, I was still a runt, still wore an undershirt.

She told me how Adam, one of the most popular boys in our class, led her downstairs to his bedroom. After making out for a long time, he began trying to open her bra. Finally unhooking the back strap, he slid his hand around, cupping it on her breast. With his other hand, he pulled at her jeans. It was awkward. She didn’t want to seem easy by helping. Finally, he pushed his hand inside her underwear and fingered her. Paralyzed hearing such talk, I wanted to look away but couldn’t. He started asking if she wanted to do it. “DO it.”

Head bowed, Beth was practically looking at me through her eyebrows. “And he’s feeling me up, you know? And we’re, like, doing it, and I’m like...but it’s good, you know?” We both assumed she lost her virginity, even though I wasn’t exactly sure what happened. “What do you think?” she asked.

January 19, 2016

The Vow of Endurance

(Names have been changed. Rest in peace, sisters.)
I’ve always been impressed with people who can name their grade school teachers. I can’t. My father can name teachers he had 80 years ago. He sees them in his mind’s eye and recounts when they hollered and smacked kids. And when they gently buttoned little coats or taught history and ignited his imagination.

I do remember names of teachers I didn’t get. Sister Mary Katherine, an Irish, spinstery nun that kids feared. Sister Mary Ellen, a tomboy-plus-spitfire nun. For the life of me, I cannot remember the names of my Kindergarten, 1st, 2nd, or 3rd grade teachers. And I really liked Kindergarten! I know that my 1st grade teacher, a new and young nun, left our school and the Dominican order when that year ended. My 4th and 5th grade lay teachers moved out of state and onto other vocations. My 6th grade teacher, a very popular nun, left the order when I was in high school. Huh.

Mostly, school was a series of autumn-winter-springs, in plaid uniforms with neat desks that went from “I’m going to be a model student,” to so messy I couldn’t close the lid all the way.

A few teacher memories remain tattooed inside my head. Permanent marks on a kid who didn’t understand what she was seeing. They stay intact because something happened.

For many years, I wondered, “Why were they allowed to teach children?”