I get nostalgic for summer when I get deep into it, missing it before it's even over. I begin to think about all the things of this blessed season that "make" it for so many of us.
What would summer be without my favorite fast song playing on the car radio, hitting the best part just as I crest a hill? What would it be without a slow song at sundown, an old song when I'm passing a former hangout full of good memories?
What would summer be without a happy-hour Sonic beverage to sip all evening? Without frozen drinks that give me brain freeze, endless pitchers of Kool-Aid sweating on the counter after chilling all night? Without iced tea that tastes like all the summers of my life?
What would summer be without family gatherings: celebratory dinners, Click's Steakhouse, the nieces and nephews trailing though like confetti streamers on their summer visits? Without the homemade ice cream and elaborate birthday cakes for the 10 summer birthdays we have (out of 13)?
What would summer be without a certain tang in the smell of the air conditioner in my childhood home---or the lovely chill of the air in my own house, set where I and only I want it? What would it be without the sweltering crush of humidity when I walk out of a too-cold restaurant or movie theater? Without my slightly-darker left arm from so much driving with the sun on it?
What would summer be without the smell of coconut and suntan lotion and the fizz of a Coke in the nose? What would it feel like without the utter abandonment of "cool" points to ooh and ahh over Rockets over Rhema fireworks? How would it seem without the unstructured eight weeks of physical, spiritual, and mental recovery from 10 months of non-stop work? Where would I wind up without that frame to keep me sane?
What would summer be without multi-lane highways, exactly five miles over the speed limit? Or without patchy blacktop I can drive with the confidence of a surgeon, negotiating the bumps by speeding up a little? Or without the familiar rumble of gravel, the slight drift when I know I'm at just the right pace?
What would summer be without singing along and laughing too loud and dressing as casual as I want? What would it be without lightning bugs and meteor showers? How wonderful could it be with no reading or movies or long quiet nights alone? Without a computer with infinite links to a world bigger than we, any of us, really realize?
How wonderful could summer be without all the connections reconnected, the hearts restored, the homes full of good, fresh things---fruits and flowers and garden bounty?
Summer isn't just for students and teachers. As it does for nature, it refreshes and fills us all with new energy for one more year. How lucky we are to have it!
Saturday, June 29, 2013
Saturday, June 22, 2013
A Day in the Life of a Toddler
7:30 a.m.---I have awakened. My loyal servants are drawn by my plaintive but sweetly-tuned demands: Up! Out! Mama! Biscuit! 'ilk! I throw in an additional syllable here and there to keep them sharp and finely tuned to my understanding of the world. I would prefer it if I could get my diaper changed and get out of the bedroom at the same moment, but that doesn't happen anymore, not since they figured out how fast I can roll over and run away without a diaper on. Fools! As soon as I figure that trick out, I'm going to blow this pop stand and world dominion is mine.
8:00---I enjoy a leisurely breakfast of cereal, granola bar, milk, and/or fruit. Then it's time for some roaming and playtime. If the toy makes noise or dust, it's the best to be found. Those popcorn-poppers and jack-in-the-boxes are genius! If I make enough noise, I might get sent out to play in the yard. Yippee!
9:00---There are so very many rocks in the world, so many to collect and bang together and taste, and then dip in the dirt and taste again. Maybe dip in a puddle and try that, too. The Bigs always yell about that, but they don't see me every second, and I can get in a good smorgasbord in less than a minute. I find shiny beige rocks deceptively bland-looking, but they can be quite smooth to the taste; plain old brown rocks are often just gritty. But there are some that I just can't resist along the garden border. I don't know what kind of rocks those things are, but they taste better than Grandma's cookies.
11:00---Time for some lunch. If I can, I'll scope out lunch in a couple of places---home, Grandma and Papa's house, or the neighbors---and find the one I like best. Or I might have a little at all three if everybody has a tasty spread that day. Then I give the Bigs a break by engaging in something they call "naptime." For a couple of hours, I hang out in my crib marshaling my troops, while I'm "sleeping." So far I have a giraffe, a frog, a couple of dogs, several monkeys, and a whole army of bugs. We have long discussions about offensive moves and troop formations in preparation for the day we make our move to really break out of this joint.
3:00---It's afternoon shift time, and I've about had enough of the tomfoolery around here. "Drink your milk!" "Pick up your toys!" "Don't you do that!" "I'm going to count to..." "Move back from the television!" All I want is a little peace while I veg out to Mickey Mouse Clubhouse...or Sophia the First.....or Doc McStuffins. Mickey isn't a great commander like I am, but he has a brilliant footman named Toodles who comes running whenever he calls. I vow each day to get my own Toodles so he can supply me with Goldfish and flour tortillas whenever I want one.
7:00---Dinner. It's time to charm the Bigs with my cute table antics. I give them a few grins and winks and eat everything on my plate....or seemingly so. They can't see me dropping my beans down the air conditioning vent behind my chair. This is essential, because I want the fruit, fruit bar, ice cream, or even the single cookie that is often provided if I finish my plate. Can they possibly have no idea that sugar is the "uranium" that will one day fire my reactor to bring about my escape?
7:30---Bathtime is a dangerous time. If I'm being watched closely, it may seem odd that I line up all my water animals and review the troops each night. I've found that I can deal with that occasionally, though, by suddenly sweeping them over the side of the tub with a wave of water. While the Big on patrol yells and grumbles about picking up the "toys," I am re-establishing communication with the brave soldiers on the line. They must be kept sharp. The bathtub letters and numbers aren't to be trusted; they keep trying to spell out words of escape on the tile wall.
8:00---Bedtime is the one comforting element of this day. Baby lotion, clean pjs, books, and a cup of milk---shoot, I can drag all that out to an hour at least. I don't even have to think about it.
8:15---The little commander is knocked out, for a few hours, at least. Peacefully, sleep has silenced that perfectly inventive, creative, normal little 2-year-old brain, and the world is safe for at least one more day.
8:00---I enjoy a leisurely breakfast of cereal, granola bar, milk, and/or fruit. Then it's time for some roaming and playtime. If the toy makes noise or dust, it's the best to be found. Those popcorn-poppers and jack-in-the-boxes are genius! If I make enough noise, I might get sent out to play in the yard. Yippee!
9:00---There are so very many rocks in the world, so many to collect and bang together and taste, and then dip in the dirt and taste again. Maybe dip in a puddle and try that, too. The Bigs always yell about that, but they don't see me every second, and I can get in a good smorgasbord in less than a minute. I find shiny beige rocks deceptively bland-looking, but they can be quite smooth to the taste; plain old brown rocks are often just gritty. But there are some that I just can't resist along the garden border. I don't know what kind of rocks those things are, but they taste better than Grandma's cookies.
11:00---Time for some lunch. If I can, I'll scope out lunch in a couple of places---home, Grandma and Papa's house, or the neighbors---and find the one I like best. Or I might have a little at all three if everybody has a tasty spread that day. Then I give the Bigs a break by engaging in something they call "naptime." For a couple of hours, I hang out in my crib marshaling my troops, while I'm "sleeping." So far I have a giraffe, a frog, a couple of dogs, several monkeys, and a whole army of bugs. We have long discussions about offensive moves and troop formations in preparation for the day we make our move to really break out of this joint.
3:00---It's afternoon shift time, and I've about had enough of the tomfoolery around here. "Drink your milk!" "Pick up your toys!" "Don't you do that!" "I'm going to count to..." "Move back from the television!" All I want is a little peace while I veg out to Mickey Mouse Clubhouse...or Sophia the First.....or Doc McStuffins. Mickey isn't a great commander like I am, but he has a brilliant footman named Toodles who comes running whenever he calls. I vow each day to get my own Toodles so he can supply me with Goldfish and flour tortillas whenever I want one.
7:00---Dinner. It's time to charm the Bigs with my cute table antics. I give them a few grins and winks and eat everything on my plate....or seemingly so. They can't see me dropping my beans down the air conditioning vent behind my chair. This is essential, because I want the fruit, fruit bar, ice cream, or even the single cookie that is often provided if I finish my plate. Can they possibly have no idea that sugar is the "uranium" that will one day fire my reactor to bring about my escape?
7:30---Bathtime is a dangerous time. If I'm being watched closely, it may seem odd that I line up all my water animals and review the troops each night. I've found that I can deal with that occasionally, though, by suddenly sweeping them over the side of the tub with a wave of water. While the Big on patrol yells and grumbles about picking up the "toys," I am re-establishing communication with the brave soldiers on the line. They must be kept sharp. The bathtub letters and numbers aren't to be trusted; they keep trying to spell out words of escape on the tile wall.
8:00---Bedtime is the one comforting element of this day. Baby lotion, clean pjs, books, and a cup of milk---shoot, I can drag all that out to an hour at least. I don't even have to think about it.
8:15---The little commander is knocked out, for a few hours, at least. Peacefully, sleep has silenced that perfectly inventive, creative, normal little 2-year-old brain, and the world is safe for at least one more day.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Wipe(d) Out
I am spent. Mostly, I've spent the last six hours in chaos. I came to the ranch yesterday to help out with house/baby duty while hay-baling was in high gear. I did pretty well yesterday; washing some clothes, did some dishes, fed and bathed Allie, and read her a couple of books before her mom was able to come finish putting her down for the night.
Today started off fine; Allie and I slept in until 7:45 while everyone else was working cattle. We had some breakfast, played, read some books, watched a little Disney Junior, had lunch, and commiserated with Cole when he came in the house to change because he got kicked in both knees by a cow, landing in what we euphemistically call a whole lot of "fresh." Allie went down for a nap just before a thunderstorm rolled in, putting us both to sleep. After 30-40 minutes, I woke up and found that Sheri and Cole had come in and cleaned up. It was relatively peaceful until Allie woke up, and suddenly everything went to crap.
1) Allie knocked over my cup of sugar-free Hawaiian Punch (fruit juicy red) on the light blue carpet.
2) The upstairs air conditioner, scheduled to be replaced within a week, decided to flood the carpet in the hallway and one bedroom.
3) I picked up one of my protein shakes off an end table where I had set it down a few minutes earlier and tried to give it a good shake.....not realizing I had forgotten to put the lid back on. Another mess to clean up. Strawberry protein gunk on toys, couch, carpet. Allie's Daisy Duck from the Disney store bore the brunt, I'm afraid. And in case you didn't know, spot-cleaning a protein shake on a plush toy is like trying to wipe an egg off of a paper towel. There's gonna be some crusty residue.
4) I accidentally let some secret information out.
5) Allie developed a fever and didn't want any dinner, didn't want to play in the bath, didn't even want her usual books at bedtime. (No, technically I wasn't responsible for this, but I felt bad for her.)
Except for Cole getting hurt and Allie going to bed sick, it was really a comedy of errors, and I felt like the lowest-ranking jester. To top it, I know I was working over something really witty in my head earlier this week for tonight's blog, but as usual, I made no notes, and now I'm so fried I can't remember what it was. Plus, I have the rest of that shake AND the Hawaiian Punch (fruit juicy red) sitting on a table ABOVE me and my sister's laptop I'm writing on. I think you'll understand why I really have to sign off right now.
Today started off fine; Allie and I slept in until 7:45 while everyone else was working cattle. We had some breakfast, played, read some books, watched a little Disney Junior, had lunch, and commiserated with Cole when he came in the house to change because he got kicked in both knees by a cow, landing in what we euphemistically call a whole lot of "fresh." Allie went down for a nap just before a thunderstorm rolled in, putting us both to sleep. After 30-40 minutes, I woke up and found that Sheri and Cole had come in and cleaned up. It was relatively peaceful until Allie woke up, and suddenly everything went to crap.
1) Allie knocked over my cup of sugar-free Hawaiian Punch (fruit juicy red) on the light blue carpet.
2) The upstairs air conditioner, scheduled to be replaced within a week, decided to flood the carpet in the hallway and one bedroom.
3) I picked up one of my protein shakes off an end table where I had set it down a few minutes earlier and tried to give it a good shake.....not realizing I had forgotten to put the lid back on. Another mess to clean up. Strawberry protein gunk on toys, couch, carpet. Allie's Daisy Duck from the Disney store bore the brunt, I'm afraid. And in case you didn't know, spot-cleaning a protein shake on a plush toy is like trying to wipe an egg off of a paper towel. There's gonna be some crusty residue.
4) I accidentally let some secret information out.
5) Allie developed a fever and didn't want any dinner, didn't want to play in the bath, didn't even want her usual books at bedtime. (No, technically I wasn't responsible for this, but I felt bad for her.)
Except for Cole getting hurt and Allie going to bed sick, it was really a comedy of errors, and I felt like the lowest-ranking jester. To top it, I know I was working over something really witty in my head earlier this week for tonight's blog, but as usual, I made no notes, and now I'm so fried I can't remember what it was. Plus, I have the rest of that shake AND the Hawaiian Punch (fruit juicy red) sitting on a table ABOVE me and my sister's laptop I'm writing on. I think you'll understand why I really have to sign off right now.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Heaven Come Down
If you clicked on the link to read this, I'll bet you did so because of the title. I'd also bet that you believe in Heaven as a real, tangible place. I used to be very certain of it, then decided it might be a figurative place; I just wasn't sure. Losing a loved one changes your perspective. Mine was altered without any doubt when Laura died, 10 years ago this morning.
If you were on the weekly email list during that time, you've heard some of these details, but I have an expanded group of readers from then, so let me tell you some of the things that happened in the final days when she was home. I promise that you won't regret it; it's meant to be the opposite of depressing.
We brought Laura home under hospice care about four days after she collapsed, paralyzed from the cancer eating through her spinal column and skull. But the person we brought home was hardly one I recognized. Yes, she was on a lot of pain medication, but to look at her, you would think she was in the greatest of health: her face was glowing like parchment lit by candles, the kind of glow I'd only seen on a few brides. There was none of the ruddy complexion that vexed her so much. In retrospect, I can only call the look she had as angelic in demeanor. She was so very beautiful, and lots of visitors remarked that she "lit up the room."
After a couple of days, when that hateful disease started to affect the language center in Laura's brain, she stopped communicating except with monosyllabic responses, smiles, or frowns. On the third day, she was unresponsive to any of us all day. Then, at about 4 o'clock, Julie Potts, our own hospice nurse-angel, arrived. When Laura saw Julie, it was like the sun coming through the clouds; she smiled so brilliantly and began speaking in full sentences. I recorded that conversation a few weeks after Laura's death so I would never forget it.
"Hi, Julie! How are you?"
"Well, I'm fine! How are you today?"
Laura's face glowed as she smiled and replied, "I'm gonna die! I'm gonna die."
"How do you feel about that, honey?" Julie asked in her gentle way.
Again the bright smile: "I'm OK! I'm OK."
Julie put down her things and stepped up next to the bed. At that point we had all gathered around her. "Honey, have you seen angels?"
"Yes!"---with the smile of a child full of joy.
"Have you seen Jesus?"
"Yes!"
"Are there angels here with us now?"
"Oh, yes! Lots."
"Are they pretty?"
"Yes. Shiny! Lots of colors."
"Do they want you to come with them?"
"Yes!!"
"Well, it's OK for you to go with them whenever you are ready. We love you but we want you to know that it's OK to go. Will you do that?"
"Yes." All of us around the bed were quietly weeping at that point. It was the most beautiful moment you can imagine.
We all spoke softly to her for a while. Julie asked Laura what her favorite hymn was, to which she replied "Amazing Grace." Julie got us all to sing it, and Laura sang along. That was, to my knowledge, the last time she put more than just a couple of words together at a time. Even as it was happening, I was aware of the magnitude of the gift she was giving us, the peace and hope she was leaving for us.
The next day, Laura was vocalizing all day, sometimes single notes, sometimes little trills. Her sister Peggy asked her if she was singing with the angels, and she answered with a clear, "Yes." At some point, Peggy asked her how she was doing, and Laura beamed, "I live!" We all knew that she meant forever, spiritually, she would live.
That evening, I laid my head on the bed next to her and spoke to her quietly about the things we'd always said: how lucky we were to have had such a friendship, since most people don't even know they can have a friendship as deep as ours; that I would always know she was watching over me, and I'd try to make her proud in every single thing I did; that I'd miss her every day for the rest of my life, but it was absolutely OK for her to go when she was ready; that I loved her with everything my heart could hold, full and running over. And then the last words she said to me, looking me right in the eyes: "Love you."
After that evening, Laura went into a coma, but her body continued to fight for five days. The cats bedded down with her, as they always did, and for the most part, they didn't go on their usual tears through the house. Figaro was still on the bed with Laura when she passed and refused to move until we picked her up.
For the last three days before Laura died, a pair of doves roosted on the deck outside the living room, in plain view of her and anyone else in the room. Though we had many birds at our house, none had ever done that, and they never did it again after she died.
That final morning, I took my usual fistful of vitamins and pills and then fixed a bowl of cereal. I took it to the chair next to the head of Laura's bed. Though she'd been unconscious for days, I still talked to her. I said, "OK, I took my pills and I'm eating some cereal to keep all of 'em down there." For years, she'd asked me about those two things every day, so I just told her like I normally would. I looked at her, took a bite, and looked down at a magazine in my lap. I picked up another bite. And then, for some reason, as I lifted my spoon toward my mouth, I looked over at her and put the spoon back down. I watched her for several seconds, and she didn't breathe again. It was such a smooth transition, so peaceful, that I could only be glad that she had gone with the angels, that she was able to do it in dignity and tranquility.
I will never know the joy of giving birth, but I know what it is to step to the precipice of death with a person you love beyond measure, and the two experiences are strangely similar. The prospect of death used to terrify me, but Laura showed me something different. You see, I never knew until she proved it that we don't so much go to Heaven; Heaven comes down for us. Heaven holds us in the light of all its candles and reassures those who go and those who are there when they go that everything will be fine. Heaven helps us sing together and sends doves and angels as signs. Heaven doesn't wait at the top of the stairs, tapping a foot impatiently. I never imagined the grace of death, until Laura died, and I saw Heaven come down for her, and for us all.
If you were on the weekly email list during that time, you've heard some of these details, but I have an expanded group of readers from then, so let me tell you some of the things that happened in the final days when she was home. I promise that you won't regret it; it's meant to be the opposite of depressing.
We brought Laura home under hospice care about four days after she collapsed, paralyzed from the cancer eating through her spinal column and skull. But the person we brought home was hardly one I recognized. Yes, she was on a lot of pain medication, but to look at her, you would think she was in the greatest of health: her face was glowing like parchment lit by candles, the kind of glow I'd only seen on a few brides. There was none of the ruddy complexion that vexed her so much. In retrospect, I can only call the look she had as angelic in demeanor. She was so very beautiful, and lots of visitors remarked that she "lit up the room."
After a couple of days, when that hateful disease started to affect the language center in Laura's brain, she stopped communicating except with monosyllabic responses, smiles, or frowns. On the third day, she was unresponsive to any of us all day. Then, at about 4 o'clock, Julie Potts, our own hospice nurse-angel, arrived. When Laura saw Julie, it was like the sun coming through the clouds; she smiled so brilliantly and began speaking in full sentences. I recorded that conversation a few weeks after Laura's death so I would never forget it.
"Hi, Julie! How are you?"
"Well, I'm fine! How are you today?"
Laura's face glowed as she smiled and replied, "I'm gonna die! I'm gonna die."
"How do you feel about that, honey?" Julie asked in her gentle way.
Again the bright smile: "I'm OK! I'm OK."
Julie put down her things and stepped up next to the bed. At that point we had all gathered around her. "Honey, have you seen angels?"
"Yes!"---with the smile of a child full of joy.
"Have you seen Jesus?"
"Yes!"
"Are there angels here with us now?"
"Oh, yes! Lots."
"Are they pretty?"
"Yes. Shiny! Lots of colors."
"Do they want you to come with them?"
"Yes!!"
"Well, it's OK for you to go with them whenever you are ready. We love you but we want you to know that it's OK to go. Will you do that?"
"Yes." All of us around the bed were quietly weeping at that point. It was the most beautiful moment you can imagine.
We all spoke softly to her for a while. Julie asked Laura what her favorite hymn was, to which she replied "Amazing Grace." Julie got us all to sing it, and Laura sang along. That was, to my knowledge, the last time she put more than just a couple of words together at a time. Even as it was happening, I was aware of the magnitude of the gift she was giving us, the peace and hope she was leaving for us.
The next day, Laura was vocalizing all day, sometimes single notes, sometimes little trills. Her sister Peggy asked her if she was singing with the angels, and she answered with a clear, "Yes." At some point, Peggy asked her how she was doing, and Laura beamed, "I live!" We all knew that she meant forever, spiritually, she would live.
That evening, I laid my head on the bed next to her and spoke to her quietly about the things we'd always said: how lucky we were to have had such a friendship, since most people don't even know they can have a friendship as deep as ours; that I would always know she was watching over me, and I'd try to make her proud in every single thing I did; that I'd miss her every day for the rest of my life, but it was absolutely OK for her to go when she was ready; that I loved her with everything my heart could hold, full and running over. And then the last words she said to me, looking me right in the eyes: "Love you."
After that evening, Laura went into a coma, but her body continued to fight for five days. The cats bedded down with her, as they always did, and for the most part, they didn't go on their usual tears through the house. Figaro was still on the bed with Laura when she passed and refused to move until we picked her up.
For the last three days before Laura died, a pair of doves roosted on the deck outside the living room, in plain view of her and anyone else in the room. Though we had many birds at our house, none had ever done that, and they never did it again after she died.
That final morning, I took my usual fistful of vitamins and pills and then fixed a bowl of cereal. I took it to the chair next to the head of Laura's bed. Though she'd been unconscious for days, I still talked to her. I said, "OK, I took my pills and I'm eating some cereal to keep all of 'em down there." For years, she'd asked me about those two things every day, so I just told her like I normally would. I looked at her, took a bite, and looked down at a magazine in my lap. I picked up another bite. And then, for some reason, as I lifted my spoon toward my mouth, I looked over at her and put the spoon back down. I watched her for several seconds, and she didn't breathe again. It was such a smooth transition, so peaceful, that I could only be glad that she had gone with the angels, that she was able to do it in dignity and tranquility.
I will never know the joy of giving birth, but I know what it is to step to the precipice of death with a person you love beyond measure, and the two experiences are strangely similar. The prospect of death used to terrify me, but Laura showed me something different. You see, I never knew until she proved it that we don't so much go to Heaven; Heaven comes down for us. Heaven holds us in the light of all its candles and reassures those who go and those who are there when they go that everything will be fine. Heaven helps us sing together and sends doves and angels as signs. Heaven doesn't wait at the top of the stairs, tapping a foot impatiently. I never imagined the grace of death, until Laura died, and I saw Heaven come down for her, and for us all.
Saturday, June 8, 2013
Everyone Needs Gay Rights
As the Supreme Court considers the legality of same-sex marriages and is expected to hand down a ruling any day, I keep occasionally giving myself a quick head-shaking to make sure I'm really hearing this right. This is 2013, right? Then how is it possible that I've known the right answer to this question for, oh, going on my entire adult life? I didn't even have any concept of gay couples or marriages until I went to college, and it seemed pretty clear to me then. But just when I work up a good head of steam about the meanness and cruelty of many people, I remember that a lot of those who call judgment on the LGBT community don't have any experience that will make the issue clear to them.
I do. I belong to one of the last groups that it is not only socially acceptable to be prejudiced against, but encouraged in many ways---even made a standard topic in the comedy industry. No, I'm not gay, though some people will believe I am no matter what I say. But that's not the argument for this piece. Here's how I know any kind of prejudice is wrong: I'm a fat woman. The whole sentence is important. Yes, Kevin Smith and Chris Christie have taken hits, but they're still seen as tolerable people. Fat women engender an entirely different attitude. Strangers on the street will crack jokes in your face (once, notably, a homeless-looking loser on a bicycle verbally insulted me and a friend). People who should treat you with respect will sneer just as you turn your back, but not quite wait long enough for you to miss it. And the discrimination in the professional world is well-documented; I hardly need to bore you with the details of the summer I applied for 37 teaching jobs before I was hired---by a good woman who actually read my resume and references and wanted me on her team, no matter what. God bless you, Vickie Earnhart, for saving my career.
This doesn't even cover the pathology of growing up a fat girl. I don't have the bytes for that here. But it's where I learned what mean and cruel and judgmental meant.
One might wonder how all of that translates to gay marriage. It seems a simple connection to me, but I was there. It might strain credulity, but here goes: God has spoken in my ear only twice in my life, once as a child, and the other as an adult. I was 20 or 21, pulling up to the stop sign on 5th Street in Pryor, around the corner from my grandparents' house, going to visit my friends Robbie and James at Robbie's house across town. I wrote about James a few weeks back, my friend who helped me understand that black and white experiences were different, no matter how we wanted to deny it. I was thinking as I drove to that stop sign of some of the things his race had suffered, and my heart was rebelling against any kind of "humanity" that would call itself superior to another based on skin color. How could anyone dislike someone with the huge heart, sweet smile, and loving spirit that James had? I may have even said the words out loud: "Why?! It's so wrong." And just before I hit the brakes at that sign, I heard the commanding voice I recognized from childhood: "Then fight this. Fight this."
Still a kid and not accustomed to ignoring authority, I knew instantly that this was a moment I would never forget. I've done my best to honor that charge from God, even though I know there must have been times I've fallen short. God and I have our policy differences from time to time, but I don't think I've ever questioned this one. It was clear to me as time progressed that I had taken it to heart, because I never saw this as a charge to fight racial equality only. Every form of judgment that does not rest on a person's merits alone is an insult to me. It jumps up and slaps me in the face sometimes. For instance, I had always revered Thomas Jefferson as a genius and a superior statesmen, even though I am less concerned with states' rights than he was. It nearly broke my heart to learn that the Indian Removal Act leading to the Trail of Tears was not the brainchild of Andrew Jackson, but of Jefferson. I still teach Jefferson's writings, but I include that detail so that my mostly Native students have more of the story, too.
Is it so much of a leap, then, to wonder why I support gay marriage rights? BECAUSE GOD SAID TO! And that's not just to me. Those who decry it usually do so on the basis of Biblical statements from Leviticus and other Old Testament documents. Yet everything I have been taught states that the New Testament supersedes the Old. No one EVER seems to remember Jesus and his living, loving example, the parables and teachings such as "Let he who is without sin among you cast the first stone," the overwhelming evidence that God is meant to pass judgment, not us.
Once we tear down the faulty constructs of the religious objections, there's not much left to argue. Legally, it can be defeated in one sentence: Citizens have no vote as to the rights of others. That's why they're called RIGHTS. Everybody gets them, or nobody gets them. Take your pick. Scientifically, there will be credible proof in the next few years proving that sexuality is determined not by choice, but by nature. I've seen that so many times I can't count, with students who came out to me literally YEARS after I knew they were gay. Socially, I guess those who want to can keep their personal world "untainted" by members of the LGBT community, but I've known some brilliant, talented, and fun people I would have missed out on if I'd worried about their orientation. And really, that's what it's all about. I find it more than a little weird that people even care. Do they demand proof from their hetero friends that they are "pure" enough for their company? See, that's just a little gross right there. I just don't need to know that information on either side of the coin.
If you still disagree with me, just go back in your mind to a time when someone hurt your feelings in the worst way. They picked on you because you had red hair, buck teeth, or big ears; they made fun of you behind your back because your parents were divorcing or you failed a class or your socks clashed or one of a million things that didn't DEFINE you. Remember that hurt, and remind yourself the promise you made that you would never, ever make someone feel as bad as you did. It's not hard to understand: Everyone Needs (Gay) Rights.
I do. I belong to one of the last groups that it is not only socially acceptable to be prejudiced against, but encouraged in many ways---even made a standard topic in the comedy industry. No, I'm not gay, though some people will believe I am no matter what I say. But that's not the argument for this piece. Here's how I know any kind of prejudice is wrong: I'm a fat woman. The whole sentence is important. Yes, Kevin Smith and Chris Christie have taken hits, but they're still seen as tolerable people. Fat women engender an entirely different attitude. Strangers on the street will crack jokes in your face (once, notably, a homeless-looking loser on a bicycle verbally insulted me and a friend). People who should treat you with respect will sneer just as you turn your back, but not quite wait long enough for you to miss it. And the discrimination in the professional world is well-documented; I hardly need to bore you with the details of the summer I applied for 37 teaching jobs before I was hired---by a good woman who actually read my resume and references and wanted me on her team, no matter what. God bless you, Vickie Earnhart, for saving my career.
This doesn't even cover the pathology of growing up a fat girl. I don't have the bytes for that here. But it's where I learned what mean and cruel and judgmental meant.
One might wonder how all of that translates to gay marriage. It seems a simple connection to me, but I was there. It might strain credulity, but here goes: God has spoken in my ear only twice in my life, once as a child, and the other as an adult. I was 20 or 21, pulling up to the stop sign on 5th Street in Pryor, around the corner from my grandparents' house, going to visit my friends Robbie and James at Robbie's house across town. I wrote about James a few weeks back, my friend who helped me understand that black and white experiences were different, no matter how we wanted to deny it. I was thinking as I drove to that stop sign of some of the things his race had suffered, and my heart was rebelling against any kind of "humanity" that would call itself superior to another based on skin color. How could anyone dislike someone with the huge heart, sweet smile, and loving spirit that James had? I may have even said the words out loud: "Why?! It's so wrong." And just before I hit the brakes at that sign, I heard the commanding voice I recognized from childhood: "Then fight this. Fight this."
Still a kid and not accustomed to ignoring authority, I knew instantly that this was a moment I would never forget. I've done my best to honor that charge from God, even though I know there must have been times I've fallen short. God and I have our policy differences from time to time, but I don't think I've ever questioned this one. It was clear to me as time progressed that I had taken it to heart, because I never saw this as a charge to fight racial equality only. Every form of judgment that does not rest on a person's merits alone is an insult to me. It jumps up and slaps me in the face sometimes. For instance, I had always revered Thomas Jefferson as a genius and a superior statesmen, even though I am less concerned with states' rights than he was. It nearly broke my heart to learn that the Indian Removal Act leading to the Trail of Tears was not the brainchild of Andrew Jackson, but of Jefferson. I still teach Jefferson's writings, but I include that detail so that my mostly Native students have more of the story, too.
Is it so much of a leap, then, to wonder why I support gay marriage rights? BECAUSE GOD SAID TO! And that's not just to me. Those who decry it usually do so on the basis of Biblical statements from Leviticus and other Old Testament documents. Yet everything I have been taught states that the New Testament supersedes the Old. No one EVER seems to remember Jesus and his living, loving example, the parables and teachings such as "Let he who is without sin among you cast the first stone," the overwhelming evidence that God is meant to pass judgment, not us.
Once we tear down the faulty constructs of the religious objections, there's not much left to argue. Legally, it can be defeated in one sentence: Citizens have no vote as to the rights of others. That's why they're called RIGHTS. Everybody gets them, or nobody gets them. Take your pick. Scientifically, there will be credible proof in the next few years proving that sexuality is determined not by choice, but by nature. I've seen that so many times I can't count, with students who came out to me literally YEARS after I knew they were gay. Socially, I guess those who want to can keep their personal world "untainted" by members of the LGBT community, but I've known some brilliant, talented, and fun people I would have missed out on if I'd worried about their orientation. And really, that's what it's all about. I find it more than a little weird that people even care. Do they demand proof from their hetero friends that they are "pure" enough for their company? See, that's just a little gross right there. I just don't need to know that information on either side of the coin.
If you still disagree with me, just go back in your mind to a time when someone hurt your feelings in the worst way. They picked on you because you had red hair, buck teeth, or big ears; they made fun of you behind your back because your parents were divorcing or you failed a class or your socks clashed or one of a million things that didn't DEFINE you. Remember that hurt, and remind yourself the promise you made that you would never, ever make someone feel as bad as you did. It's not hard to understand: Everyone Needs (Gay) Rights.
Saturday, June 1, 2013
Dear Katie:
Today, you've suddenly reached your ninth birthday, though it seems only a year or two ago that we were all at the hospital, waiting for you to arrive. When they brought you out to show you to us, and we learned you were a girl, I knew right then that I'd never be able to help myself; I knew I would always love you best.
Your three older brothers, blessings that they are, were charmers, but we all longed for a little girl to buy pretty dresses and dolls for. Thank goodness you loved them, too. None of us believe in teaching little girls that they are princesses, but we had a good time playing at it with you and seeing your tender heart moved by stories where the good, moral girl is the one who wins in the end.
From the first moment you were born, you had your daddy's perfectly round blue eyes and blond hair (much to your Grandma's delight, if you didn't know). But your brothers nearly made you absolutely rotten. Logan was your protector, a ten-year-old knight at your crib to pick you up if you whimpered or cried. You were Chris's girl; though he called you Trouble early on and for a lot of years, he was your devoted servant. Even Nolan, seemingly hard-hearted Nolan, knew everything about you and could recite what you would and could do, what you wouldn't and couldn't. I'll never forget the night your family got to Grandma and Papa's house the Christmas you were about 18 months old. You tried to climb up on the couch, and by golly, you were NOT going to take help. You threw your doll and her blankey in the floor to give you more room and hauled yourself up, turned and sat, and pointed to your things on the floor with a "Uhh!" Three boys literally DIVED toward them to get them for you. I laughed so hard I cried, and you were a little put out with me for it. I'm still smiling now as I write it.
Your sweet side developed as soon as you could talk and laugh. Your Aunt Sheri still loves the way you laugh; we talk about how you have the most infectious giggle there is. Once when Sheri and I were bringing you down from South Dakota to Oklahoma, we passed through some storms. Soon, Sheri pointed out a rainbow to you. Riding in your little carseat, you said, "Oh, it's booful." It was so cute we got you to say it over and over again, until you hit your limit and refused to say it again.
You've got your own opinions and nothing and no one will change them. I have to admire that; it's not an easy quality to stick with. Sometimes it's aggravating, but others it cracks me up. I remember one time when I was saying goodbye to you at the door of your house, coming back to Oklahoma. You were four, almost five. You hugged and kissed me and said bye. But you did NOT like the fellow I was with---you were not fond of most men back then---and when he said, "Bye, Katie," you positively looked daggers at him with those ice-blue eyes and slammed the door in his face. We laughed over that one, too. Now, of course, you have better manners, but I hope you'll always have the tenacious sense of self to stick by what you believe.
You're so smart that it's a little frightening sometimes. One day shortly after you finished kindergarten, you picked up a set of stickers I had on the table doing bills, and read "Happy Anniversary" out loud without so much as a stutter or stumble. Shocked, I asked you, "How do you know what that says?" A little defensive, you replied, "I just read it." Ever since then, I've made sure I get you at least one book for Christmas and have even been buying books ahead for you for the future. All of your brothers read, too, but I love the fact that you seem born to it.
I think what I love most about you is your exuberance. Few sights will ever bring me as much joy as the memory of you running to greet me, long hair and long legs flying, with your arms flung wide open. Then, too, there was your heartfelt, immediate acceptance of Emeri, your new cousin---in fact, you seemed to fall right in love with her, and the first Christmas when she had to leave before you, you cried so much I thought I would have to break down and cry with you. I had worried that your status as the only girl might make you sensitive to having an older girl come into the family, but I should have known that your wide-open heart would take her in. This spring, a few weeks ago, you were on the radio during a class trip, and the DJ asked what you were going to do this summer. "Ride bikes with my cousin Emeri," you said. No matter that Emeri lives in Texas, nearly a thousand miles from you. That's nothing to your traveling genes and your exuberant will. Even though you just spent a week here with us, I'm sure you'll get your bike-riding in somehow.
The day you were born, Papa called one of his friends on his cell phone to let them know you were here. I happened to be sitting close to him, and I heard him say, "We got us a girl! Yep. Everything's fine. She's a jewel." No one could miss the pride in his face and voice. I hope that you'll always, always remember that from that first day, you were the sparkling gem, the blue-eyed queen of our hearts.
I love you!
Aunt Cathy
Your three older brothers, blessings that they are, were charmers, but we all longed for a little girl to buy pretty dresses and dolls for. Thank goodness you loved them, too. None of us believe in teaching little girls that they are princesses, but we had a good time playing at it with you and seeing your tender heart moved by stories where the good, moral girl is the one who wins in the end.
From the first moment you were born, you had your daddy's perfectly round blue eyes and blond hair (much to your Grandma's delight, if you didn't know). But your brothers nearly made you absolutely rotten. Logan was your protector, a ten-year-old knight at your crib to pick you up if you whimpered or cried. You were Chris's girl; though he called you Trouble early on and for a lot of years, he was your devoted servant. Even Nolan, seemingly hard-hearted Nolan, knew everything about you and could recite what you would and could do, what you wouldn't and couldn't. I'll never forget the night your family got to Grandma and Papa's house the Christmas you were about 18 months old. You tried to climb up on the couch, and by golly, you were NOT going to take help. You threw your doll and her blankey in the floor to give you more room and hauled yourself up, turned and sat, and pointed to your things on the floor with a "Uhh!" Three boys literally DIVED toward them to get them for you. I laughed so hard I cried, and you were a little put out with me for it. I'm still smiling now as I write it.
Your sweet side developed as soon as you could talk and laugh. Your Aunt Sheri still loves the way you laugh; we talk about how you have the most infectious giggle there is. Once when Sheri and I were bringing you down from South Dakota to Oklahoma, we passed through some storms. Soon, Sheri pointed out a rainbow to you. Riding in your little carseat, you said, "Oh, it's booful." It was so cute we got you to say it over and over again, until you hit your limit and refused to say it again.
You've got your own opinions and nothing and no one will change them. I have to admire that; it's not an easy quality to stick with. Sometimes it's aggravating, but others it cracks me up. I remember one time when I was saying goodbye to you at the door of your house, coming back to Oklahoma. You were four, almost five. You hugged and kissed me and said bye. But you did NOT like the fellow I was with---you were not fond of most men back then---and when he said, "Bye, Katie," you positively looked daggers at him with those ice-blue eyes and slammed the door in his face. We laughed over that one, too. Now, of course, you have better manners, but I hope you'll always have the tenacious sense of self to stick by what you believe.
You're so smart that it's a little frightening sometimes. One day shortly after you finished kindergarten, you picked up a set of stickers I had on the table doing bills, and read "Happy Anniversary" out loud without so much as a stutter or stumble. Shocked, I asked you, "How do you know what that says?" A little defensive, you replied, "I just read it." Ever since then, I've made sure I get you at least one book for Christmas and have even been buying books ahead for you for the future. All of your brothers read, too, but I love the fact that you seem born to it.
I think what I love most about you is your exuberance. Few sights will ever bring me as much joy as the memory of you running to greet me, long hair and long legs flying, with your arms flung wide open. Then, too, there was your heartfelt, immediate acceptance of Emeri, your new cousin---in fact, you seemed to fall right in love with her, and the first Christmas when she had to leave before you, you cried so much I thought I would have to break down and cry with you. I had worried that your status as the only girl might make you sensitive to having an older girl come into the family, but I should have known that your wide-open heart would take her in. This spring, a few weeks ago, you were on the radio during a class trip, and the DJ asked what you were going to do this summer. "Ride bikes with my cousin Emeri," you said. No matter that Emeri lives in Texas, nearly a thousand miles from you. That's nothing to your traveling genes and your exuberant will. Even though you just spent a week here with us, I'm sure you'll get your bike-riding in somehow.
The day you were born, Papa called one of his friends on his cell phone to let them know you were here. I happened to be sitting close to him, and I heard him say, "We got us a girl! Yep. Everything's fine. She's a jewel." No one could miss the pride in his face and voice. I hope that you'll always, always remember that from that first day, you were the sparkling gem, the blue-eyed queen of our hearts.
I love you!
Aunt Cathy
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