Bethweek

New Address

2009-09-14T10:36:00.001-04:00

I'm now blogging at www.writinglikebreathing.blogspot.com

I never learn.

:)

That's It.

2009-04-05T23:41:00.002-04:00

I think I'm going to shut this blog down.

It's not that I don't have anything to say... it's that I never seem to say it here.

Also, there are other projects underway, and in order to give them the time and attention they deserve, maybe this little exercise has served its purpose, and can quietly saunter off into the sunset as the new cavalry rides in.

I'll decide by next week. (With word on where to stay tuned for the aforementioned upstart cavalries.) Good night, y'all.

Weekending

2009-03-29T23:26:00.002-04:00

Sitting here on another Sunday night, wondering where the weekend went. I'm almost finished with the piece I planned to publish here last week. It will eventually be posted, but tonight is looking less and less likely. This weekend was very productive, with some dashes of good social time as well... in fact, so much was packed into the last two days that it seems like a whole week. Such is the odd math of weekends: the start of the weekend can feel at once long ago and immediate, just-past, too recent to be that far gone. There are strange lazy hours, alongside hurried ones, and all these hours somehow add up to two all-too-short days.

The odd math applies to life, too. The days sometimes drag, but the weeks, months, years fly by. I keep thinking I'll have "time to catch up," but that seems as mythical as a unicorn. So I need to come up with a revised game plan, rather than the catch-up-plan. If I come up with some magic formula, I'll let you know. But math has never been my strongest suit.

In Memory of Bubbe

2009-03-15T18:38:00.005-04:00

My grandmother passed away Wednesday night of this week. Thank you to all my friends who have been so sweet, supportive and compassionate to me and my family at this difficult time. Below is a memorial I wrote for my grandmother, some of which I shared with some friends on Thursday night. (I have omitted some identifying information.) May her memory be a blessing.

This is in memory of my Bubbe Lill, who passed away on March 11, 2009.

She was born Karoline Lill J----- in Michelovca, Czechoslovakia on June 9, 1918. (Quick quiz: anyone know what else hails from Michelovca? Michelob. That’s right – Budweiser. When my father told that to my grandmother, she approved; although she wasn’t much of a beer-drinker, she preferred sweet plum wines and sherries.) Her Hebrew name was Chana Leah – a name she shared with her mother. To anyone who knows about Jewish naming traditions, this is odd. Traditionally, you’re supposed to be named in memory of someone who has already passed away, not after someone still living. That’s why there aren’t a lot of David Goldberg IIIs. Well, my grandmother sadly was named traditionally: her young mother died giving birth to her. One Chana Leah left this world as another entered it, and so my grandmother began her life.

For the first part of her life, though, Chana Leah/Karoline Lill was called by another name – the colloquial Czech “Laisczu.” The first part of her life is like a fairy tale – just as sad and somber as a genuine fairy tale, not a sparkly Disney version. Her father remarried, and her stepmother was not kind to her. A few years ago, I interviewed Bubbe about her life, and getting her to talk about her early days was difficult. We had to talk a lot about now before she opened up about then. It was partially that the memories were painful, but partially that she didn’t want to speak ill of family, or say something that might hurt anyone’s feelings. Family always, always came first, and even if there was pain, that’s not what she felt should be emphasized. She did, however, speak very lovingly of her grandmother – her mother’s mother, still a young woman herself, with a young child of her own, who was my grandmother’s uncle but seemed to her more like a brother. My grandmother found refuge in her own grandmother, and would run away to go stay with her. But ultimately, she needed to run further away, and she made her way to America… and by escaping her unhappy home life, she also wound up escaping Hitler. Her father, stepmother, and all but three of her siblings perished in World War II; all of them who remained in Europe suffered at the hands of the Nazis.

In America, the spelling of her name became Caroline instead of Karoline, and she went by the more simple “Lill.” Young Lill took a job at a bakery, began navigating her new country. She was introduced to Jake K------, a man living in Toledo, Ohio, with his four children, whose mother, his first wife, had died. Jake was a kind man with a good sense of humor; born in Lithuania, he was 21 years her senior, and had emigrated so long ago that he had fought for America in World War I. When they married, legend has it, Jake stood on a phone book hidden beneath Lill’s wedding gown train to make him look taller (neither of them were over five feet tall). She took on a new name – Lill K---- – and became a stepmother herself… but she was one who connected with her stepchildren. She also had another three children, bringing the number of Kander siblings up to seven: Irving, Herman, Sy, Esther, and Lill’s three youngest children: Rochelle, Marton, and my father, Ken.

As I said and will keep saying – family was of the utmost importance to my grandmother. She loved her children, and loved feeding them. Sadly, when she was still a young woman, in her forties, her husband Jake became ill, and passed away. My father was only 16 when he lost his father; I never knew my Zade Jake. But the family kept him present through stories, because sharing family stories (okay, and sometimes gossip) is one of many traditions we all keep… and none more so than Bubbe! But I’ll get to more Bubbe-stories momentarily.

Bubbe mourned the loss of Jake, but always embraced life, her family, her community, her faith and heritage. And later, she married again – a wonderful man named Al R--------, who gave her his love and yet another name – Lill R------.

After Al passed away in 1980, Bubbe did not seek to remarry. (But she never missed an opportunity to grill her grandchildren about their boyfriends and girlfriends.) Lill J----- K------ R------- remained the family matriarch, a family favorite for many, known as Ma, Aunt Lill, and mostly, Bubbe.

My family has so many great Bubbe stories. We had our favorite Bubbe fact and favorite Bubbe stories. And here are some of mine:

I was always impressed with the “Bubbe Fact” that she spoke seven languages (I always remember making her list them for me when I was a child, and she would list them off, always ending with “…. and, you know, a little English”).
“Holy Toledo!” Toledo, Ohio was Bubbe’s hometown for decades. “Holy Toledo” was one of our favorite exclamations. Why? I don’t know why. It was just a Bubbe thing.
Every Thanksgiving, Bubbe would settle in at the counter over a mountain of potatoes and begin peeling away for the vats of mashed potatoes our family required. She would talk and tease and jokingly complain the entire time: “Oy, oy, oy, look how hard they work me here, here I am, Cinderella Potato Peeler!” Cinderella Potato Peeler. That’s one of my strongest Bubbe memories, and it will always be linked to Thanksgiving for me.
“Potch you on the tushie.” Somehow, pairing the words “potch you on the tushie!” with a little cackle made it okay for my grandmother to grab absolutely anyone’s butt. Well, she probably never grabbed her rabbi’s butt. But she sure grabbed all of ours.
Bags of stuff. If we went to visit Bubbe, we left with a bag of stuff. Toilet paper, cereal, stuff like that. Every. Time.
Pictures. Bubbe’s house was always full of pictures of her family. She always surrounded herself with us, bragged about us, celebrated us. Her love for us was incredible.
Yiddish curses. Yiddish curses are incredibly creative in their imagery (“you should be like a chandelier – hang by day and burn at night!”). Bubbe’s favorite, which always made us laugh, was gay kaken afen yam… which in her words, loosely translated, meant “go poop in the lake.” Trust me, at any age, this is a hilarious thing for your grandmother to say.

There are so many more Bubbe stories…. but the most incredible story of all is her life. Though sometimes, especially when I was younger, I felt that we had so much that differentiated us, there is so much that I have inherited and so much more I can still learn from her. She was a true survivor, a strong and stubborn woman who always loved her family - whatever we wound up looking like, she loved us. (Even if she might tease us: “My grandchildren, they’re so ugly! I don’t like them… I LOVE them!”) That was her – Chana Leah/Laisczu/Karoline/Caroline Lill J--------- K----- R--------.

Holy Toledo. What a blessing.

Psalm 23: A Psalm of David.

The LORD is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; He leads me in the paths of righteousness For His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; For You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; My cup runneth over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; And I will dwell in the house of the LORD Forever.

Ladies & Gentleman

2009-03-09T00:27:00.004-04:00

What constitutes "gentlemanly" these days?

How about "ladylike"?

When it comes to defining these terms, I think it's getting more and more difficult to discern cliche from compliment, polite from posturing. Is being demure ladylike, or nowadays does that just mean being a pushover? Is being commanding gentlemanly, or would we now just call that being controlling?

I'd like to give some thought to this. But in all honesty, I spent a lot of time writing this weekend - finished a full-length play that I've been chipping away at for some time! - and my mind is, simply put, spent.

So while I'd like to have something eloquent to say about this, at the moment, I do not. I'm just putting the thought out there, as something to return to at a later date. If you have any brilliant insights (or not-so-brilliant... look at this post... who am I to judge?), feel free to post. Otherwise, all I can say for now is, I'll try to devote a bit more time to the ol' blog next week, and come up with something more thought-provoking.

(Somehow, "ol' blog" sounds decidedly unladylike to me...)

Emoetry

2009-03-02T00:24:00.004-05:00

Seven years ago, I discovered a handy service called Yahoo Briefcase. An online storage "briefcase" for your files, it was an easy way to back-up my writing someplace other than my computer or a flash drive. I loaded many files to the Briefcase from about 2002-2006. Then, since I had other online storage available, the Briefcase sort of slipped from my mind. Until I got an email last week, informing me that the Yahoo Briefcase service was being discontinued, and advising that I download any files I had stored there before they disappeared forever.

It was like finding a treasure chest - some fool's gold, to be sure, but a few gems in the rubble. Story ideas, lines of dialogue, even a few complete scripts and shorts I wrote years ago and had forgotten about. Most of the files were scripts, fiction-prose, or lesson plans - but there were two poems, each saved as their own small .doc file. One of them was entitled, simply "loneliness poem."*

The poem is from about three years ago. I wouldn't say it's a good poem; playwright, I can claim, but great poet, I shall never be. [I do admire those who can distill emotional depth in a few stanzas, and envy their skill.] But reading this poem, though I couldn't suppress an eye roll... I also have to admit that it made something stir in me. I could not remember the exact day or moment of gathering these words, yet I could remember how I felt when it was written.

Here is the poem:

loneliness poem
the danger
- as i see it -
is that the lonelier you are
the lonelier you will become...
because loneliness repels
and attracts the attention
only
of the other
lonely
who glance over
briefly, quickly,
see your
solitude
and murmur
i know, i know...
soothingly,
to
themselves.

It's funny how much a poem can at once reveal and conceal. When I wrote this poem, three years ago, I was a graduate student, in a social work school [or as I referred to it on my more bitter days, an antisocial work school]. I have always been one who can connect, one who longs to be part of the cast, the team, the family - and now I suddenly had few friends in proximity. I was constantly surrounded by people, but connected with few - and could see that I was not the only one in that predicament, yet still felt unable to break the barriers and find a way to reach the other loners.

And maybe on some level, I didn't want to - I needed to learn what it was like to spend a lot of time on my own. Though I logically knew this was a finite phase of my life, I was also afraid that even if I needed to learn something about solitude - what if this foreign period, this newfound loneliness, lingered and self-perpetuated for too long? Both of these emotional truths, I think, come through in the poem.

However, one who doesn't know me well might also infer from this poem that I was single when I composed this piece... while those who do know me well will know that the opposite was true. One might think I was calling out the other lonely people; I was, and I wasn't. I was just trying to acknowledge the chasm surrounding us.

I felt sad reading the poem, but also profoundly relieved. It is from a chapter now closed. I did gain strength and learn some important things about myself during that period of frequent solitude. I'm also glad to be past it. In my life now, I have moments of loneliness, but they are just that: moments. Not months. Not oppressive. Not all-encompassing. Just... human.

Finding this poem brought back some memories, not all pleasant, but all important. It also reminded me of the power of writing, for ourselves and for others. Eras can be preserved, emotions made tangible once more, by encasing our experiences in our stories, scripts, and yes - our poems. Though to clarify, "being inspired to write more poetry" is not on the list of things that have resulted from finding this one. As my mother and I have joked on more than one occasion, I pretty much only write poetry when I'm down, and I pretty much only write bad poetry. For both these reasons, I'm happy to report that I haven't been cranking out much poetry of late.

*When I mentioned this to the boy, his comment was "Oh, baby. You wrote emo poetry?" Hence the title of this blog post.

Dear Oscar

2009-02-23T00:41:00.003-05:00

Dear Oscar,

It's been a year since last I wrote to you. Another year, another night of longing from afar. Where do we stand now, one more year gone by? In this past year, have I come any closer to holding you in my arms?

Well, I'd like to think so.

It was when Tina Fey and Steve Martin took the stage that my heart truly began to flutter. Not only because I adore them both (now, don't be jealous, love), but because as the page from a screenplay rose majestically behind them, it felt familiar. The format. The courier typeface. The line breaks, the spacing. These are the pages that I so often stare at, filling them with my words and stories, hoping that someday, they might catch your attention.

I've realized, though, that you are not the only tiny little statue over whom I swoon. I do have other crushes... Tony, Obie, Pulitzer... I feel that I should come clean, confess this now rather than making things awkward down the line. But you were my first, and for that, as well as for your sheer glamor factor, you will always hold a special place in my heart. (And let's be honest - you get around, my dear, and are not always entirely discriminating in your selection of consorts.)

I've also realized that, even if our love goes unrequited for years to come, well, not to bring up the not-always-discriminating thing again, but - my heart will go on. You're just sitting there, waiting. Though it's not usually my way, I know that I have to make the first move here.

I'm working on it.

Yours,

Beth

The Actual Temperature

2009-02-15T23:08:00.006-05:00

While I was deciding what to wear today, I turned on the weather report. On the main screen, it said in giant letters: "Today's high will be 57 degrees." The monotone voice reading the words onscreen repeated the same: "Today's high will be 57 degrees."

But then the small ticker at the bottom of the screen caught my eye: "Current temperature: 66 degrees."

So. The station continues to report that the high will be only 57, even when their own equipment is simultaneously feeding the information that, in fact, it is already five degrees warmer than the projected high temp.

Hmm.

There's something off about this. New evidence is right there on the screen, and yet the powers that be are unresponsive. No, no, they seem to say - our prediction was 57, and come hell or high water (or higher temperatures), we're sticking with it.

Hmm.

I don't think this issue is limited to weathermen. [Live or automated.]

It's a problem I've had. Staring at that tiny 66, while the authoritative high projection of 57 loomed above it, my mind began cataloging times that I have made decisions, stayed in situations, took action - or didn't - based not on the 66, but on the 57. It's an important reminder: though sometimes harder to see, scrolling along the bottom of our proverbial screens, sometimes, quietly, there's been a shift. Things didn't go the way we thought they would; initial forecasts were inaccurate. Rather than continue to work with the older information, the theoretical projected high temperature which we've been planning for, expecting, clinging to -- we need to periodically look around, and see if more accurate information has become available.

It's hard, sometimes, when we were so confident that things were going to go one way, to accept that our projection was wrong. But it's usually better to make our decisions, take action, and, when we need to, get out of situations ... or get into them... not based on what our original forecast was, but based on the actual temperature.

...blocked...

2009-02-08T23:00:00.002-05:00

When people think of "writer's block," they tend to think of nothingness. No ideas. No clue where to go next, how to fill the page, what to write about. They don't really mean "block" - they mean "blank." I posit that most cases of "writer's block" are misdiagnosed (or at least, misnomers): most are actually referring to Writer's Blank.

I can't remember the last time I suffered from Writer's Blank... but lately, I am absolutely chronically afflicted with a more literal writer's block: like a clogged sink, or blocked arteries, my problem is not one of nothingness but one of being overwhelmingly stuffed. Stuffed so chock full of ideas that they cannot flow from me; like a backed-up pipe, I am unproductive not because of vacancy but because of crowding.

I see inspiration all around. It's getting suffocating... but mostly in a good way. Thus, I can't give it up. I'm having trouble focusing because I'm so grateful for so much rich material, I can't let any of it go. I take notes here, there, everywhere. Characters, slips of dialogue, whole storylines. I jot down notes and try to not lose any of these ideas... and now I have so many just-begun projects that I fear I will never finish any of them.

I think if I were to lay on a metaphorical medical table, and a team of Doctors of Composition were to do a little biopsy, they would be astonished at the findings. Upon opening me up, they would rush to page all their colleagues.

"My God! Get down here! Hoo boy, you have GOT to take a look at this writer! She's suffering from extreme playwrightitis; her novel cavities are filled beyond belief; she has multiple outbreaks of character infection, and the worst case of one-liners I've ever seen! I keep cutting and cutting, and it just keeps on coming out... I can't staunch it... get this woman a laptop, some caffeine, and a year of her time being her own, STAT!"

That, folks, is a serious case of writer's block.

The recommended cure is hard to come by. Keep me in your thoughts. I may never recover.

The Year of Reading Frequently

2009-02-02T01:07:00.006-05:00

[***Warning: first-ever Bethweek book review***]

This year, one of my resolutions was to return to my roots, and become a bookworm once again. The time has come; I'm nearly two years out of graduate school now and no longer need to recoil at the thought of picking up a book. I used to love books. I need to rekindle that love. Thus, as a starting point to my year of reading frequently, I began with The Year of Living Biblically: One Man's Humble Quest to follow the Bible as Literally as Possible.

The book, written by cheeky Esquire columnist A.J. Jacobs, is an interesting journey. Jacobs does not begin the quest as a religious man; he describes himself as a Jew who is "as Jewish as the Olive Garden is Italian." He is confounded by the religious fervor that permeates our society, and decides to explore it for himself. However, rather than taking on contemporary or mainstream religious practices and incorporating them gingerly into his life, he decides to dive in to a full year of literally carrying out every law, no matter how obscure, found in the Bible. (Hey, makes for a more intriguing premise than The Year Of Gradually Trying to Understand Religion by Joining a Congregation and/or Incorporating Daily Prayer Time Into My Schedule, or The Year of Reading a Lot of Dusty Religious Tomes.)

Clearly, literally following all of the commandments found in the Bible is impossible. (Jacobs spends the majority of his year focusing on both the Hebrew Bible, though the last few months are dedicated to the New Testament.) However, even exempting the laws having to do with the ancient Temple, animal sacrifice, and so on, Jacobs has plenty of fodder for exploration. Some of his anecdotes are laugh-out-loud funny; some poignant; some borderline insane.

Jacobs himself is a neurotic narrator, alternatively likable and frustrating. His dry wit and tongue-in-cheek observations place the reader in a position of understanding what it must be like to be a generally-sensible, modern person living out generally-considered-archaic, ancient daily practices. However, his constant self-referential examples and interpretations, coupled with his frequent references to his obsessions with pop culture and the success of his writing (including this book) occasionally took me out of the narrative itself.

Nevertheless - his book benefits more than it suffers from his self-involvement. Jacobs' stories of his family members' reactions to his quest are priceless. Halfway through the book, I decided that his wife, Julie, is possibly the most patient spouse on the planet. Make no mistake - she fights back aplenty (one of my favorite passages is when, in observance of the laws of purity, Jacobs informs Julie he cannot touch her, or anything she has touched, while she is menstruating, because she is "unclean"; she promptly sits on every usable space in their apartment), but she sure puts up with a lot as her husband winds his way deeper and deeper into a life of literal Biblical living.

Clearly, the "spectacle" is what sells the book: the trials and tribulations of The Beard, the stoning of an adulter, the stereotypically-ancient-Israelite practices are the images conjured by the book's title. But what, really, is the thrust of the book? One individual's social experiment? A modern commentary on ancient customs? It's classified as a "Humor" book - so at the end of the day, is it all a big joke?

Ultimately, the book steers clear of providing any answers, which I think is wise. But even without offering answers, and even while quickly seasoning most of the touching revelations with healthy dashes of humor, the book raises important questions. It didn't leave this reader raring to go take up religion, but it did leave her thinking about spirituality, community, finding ways to consider incorporating tradition into our lives in meaningful ways. We don't live in biblical times, but we do live in complicated ones - and taking the opportunity to consider ways old and new to sort through the chaos seems wise. (Even if we don't take all the fashion risks Jacobs does.)

Kleenex & Norton

2009-01-26T12:18:00.002-05:00

Due to both the writer and her computer currently having a cold/virus, Bethweek is delayed this week. Thanks for your patience; stay tuned.

Kleenex & Norton

2009-01-26T12:18:00.000-05:00

Due to both the writer and her computer currently having a cold/virus, Betweek is delayed this week. Thanks for your patience; stay tuned.

U.S. and Them

2009-01-19T00:38:00.009-05:00

I was listening to the radio this past week as I drove home from work. An academic was sharing his opinion about the economy. At one point, he referred to the "us economy." I had never heard the phrase "the us economy" before, and wondered what it meant. I was eager for him to explain. However, after a few more minutes of listening, I realized that he had simply mis-read his notes: he meant to say "the U.S. economy." There was no "us economy" agenda or concept he was promoting.

Even having figured this out, instead of allowing "us economy" to simply be a line mis-read, I couldn't shake the phrase. The us economy. The Us Economy. The more I thought about it, the more it seemed like something that could be developed into an actual concept.

America is a capitalist economy, and I'm not suggesting that change - but even within our capitalist system, I think we have become too much of an I economy: "my economic interests revolve solely around me; whatever deal I can score, whatever I will most benefit from, that's how I make my economic decisions."

It's a large part of why our economy is currently in the tank; businesses and individuals operated for too long with this sort of thinking. Rather than thinking communal and big-picture, America has been a nation of individual and instant-gratification. What if we were less of an I Economy, and more of an US Economy?

I'm not suggesting communism, socialism, or any other "-ism" that makes our citizens reflectively shudder. To quote Ferris Bueller, a person shouldn't believe in -isms, he should believe in himself... and to take that one step further, he should believe in his neighbor. Nothing dramatic, nothing overly-self-sacrificing, but something nonetheless revolutionary. The US Economy.

In the Us Economy, before just buying the cheapest head of imported lettuce, the consumer would stop and think: "If I spend just a little more and buy the locally grown lettuce, I'm taking care of what I need and helping out local farmers... and by extension, my community."

In the US Economy, picking up a few extra groceries or socks when we can afford to do so, and bringing them to a local food pantry or shelter, would be a regular habit rather than a holiday tradition. Each purchase would help out someone else, and pump a little more money into the economy.

In the US Economy, an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure would be both common sense and common practice. This would apply very directly to our health care system. It could also apply to our foreign policy, our environmental initiatives, and of course, our individual spending, since, after all, we are talking about the economy.

In the US Economy, there would be less stratification - US would not just U.S. We'd need to be more than just domestic-minded. When we DO buy a shirt or coffee or spice from another country, we should be shopping with free trade, fair worker conditions, and peaceful international relations in mind.

Little steps, but a big concept: each time we spend, thinking about the purchase's impact on more than just our own immediate wallet. Let our minds go instead to our collective future. Do I do this now? No - not nearly to the extent that I should. But hearing someone's live-radio gaffe inspired me to at least start pondering the possibility of changing the conversation about how we spend our money. Now I'm sharing the thought. That's how we start, right? Taking it from something to just I am thinking about, to something we can talk about...

**Note: I did Google "the us economy," but neither periods nor capitalization factor in to their searches, so any search I've been trying turns up every reference to "the U.S. economy" out there. Someone else may well have coined this phrase intentionally. It's very likely, in fact. Please feel free to post if you know of someone who has put some more time, thought and articulation into spinning out this idea.

Why I Hate My Blog (And How I Will Start To Love It)

2009-01-11T15:05:00.013-05:00

...

I am sick and tired of this stupid blog.

There, I said it. In fact, earlier this week, I went so far as to refer to this blog as "my punishment for wanting to be a writer." It's true: I set up this blog and named it Bethweek as a writing exercise, a weekly requirement I gave myself. No matter how stuck I was, I was supposed to write something, anything, because that is what writers do. We write. And if I consider myself a writer, then yes, my punishment is that I had to enforce a weekly minimum-writing regimen.

I have occasionally neglected this blog (though to my credit, it's usually when I've been doing a lot of other writing, and thus a minimum-writing requirement was a moot point). When I do keep up with it, I have tended to shy away from anything too candid or too controversial. Occasionally I'm proud of what I write here, but I often find it overly safe, and sometimes even boring.

So what's to be done? Abandon this blog like I did the last one? (Poor, wretched thing.) Or attempt a re-branding? The staff* here at Bethweek has reached a crossroads. We** cannot continue on as we*** have been going.

At least at the moment, I am going to push (punish?) myself into trying to revive this blog. Though it feels scary, I will make it more controversial when necessary, will make it frequently more deep and consistently more honest. I will also make it a more structured blog. For example, in keeping with another recent resolution - Read More Books - one of my posts each month will be a book review. In the coming months, look for reviews of a range of books, including The Year Of Living Biblically, I Am America And So Can You!, and The Mother Tongue: English and How It Got That Way.

Look, too, for the aforementioned more-deep-and-controversial blogs, including one already in development, tentatively titled "A Liberal Explanation, or, What Do You Mean My Heart's Bleeding?" and another that will explore eavesdropping in local bars. Stay tuned.

*That'd be me
** I
*** I

Sunday Night

2009-01-05T00:20:00.003-05:00

A thunderstorm, a mug of warm spicy-chai tea, a sleepy dog curled up at my feet: the end of another weekend.

It sounds like a peaceful scenario, but as Monday looms, my neck is aching and my mind beginning to race. I have a stressful day ahead of me tomorrow, I'm already struggling with one of my new year's resolutions - well, at this moment, feels like I'm already lapsing on nearly all of them. This is probably due to the fact that I'm trying to relax while also trying to be productive. I really should have divided my time rather than combining these goals into one evening, because in the pursuit of productivity, I made a long list of tasks I wanted to accomplish this weekend that have yet to be completed - and in the pursuit of relaxation, I'm drinking tea and watching Law & Order, and thus accomplishing very little of the to-do-list - and thus stressing out, and thus not relaxing.

So I am neither productive nor relaxed at the moment. Fail and fail. Sigh.

--I just got up and washed my dishes and swept the living room so I can at least half check-off the "clean my apartment" line on the to-do list. Was that progress on my tasks, or simply procrastination on blogging?--

I have so much I wanted to do that has yet to get done. Honestly, though - there's also a lot I did do today. I had lunch with friends, I went to a board meeting, I went to a rehearsal, I drove the boy to the airport, I went to another meeting, I had coffee with friends, I wrote a few thank you notes, I submitted two play entries, I started two new writing projects, and as just mentioned, swept my living room and did my dishes.

Why is it the scene or story I have yet to write holds so much more promise than the one I actually wrote? Why is the task left undone so much weightier than any task I actually completed?

Maybe it's time for the "shifting of perspective" facet of my resolution. I'll give it a try; we'll see how it goes... that which I did not accomplish today, I will try to peacefully shift over to tomorrow, with as little self-judgment as possible. The to-dos still in queue will be given another chance to be completed. Because as a fictional Southern woman once noted, tomorrow is another day. And so:

A thunderstorm, a mug of warm spicy-chai tea, a sleepy dog curled up at my feet: the start of another week.

Resolved.

2009-01-01T23:57:00.005-05:00

I remember an assignment from years ago, some civics requirement, where I had to write a resolution using the appropriate language and format. Thinking back about the task, I recall appreciating the structure of a formal resolution. The first section is several "WHEREAS" statements, which outline the current situation (ie, "WHEREAS, there are not enough traffic signals in Smallville," "AND WHEREAS, studies have shown traffic signals can significantly reduce automobile accidents..."); the second section outlines the proposed solutions to the situation, stated in terms of "THEREFORE BE IT RESOLVED,""BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED," and "BE IT FINALLY RESOLVED."

This structure enables us to first encounter the reality, concretize the issues and allow the existing status to inform not only the writer, but the reader, as to why the proposed resolutions are sound. THEREFORE, instead of informal but specific resolutions like "eat breakfast every morning" or "take real salsa-dancing classes again" (though both of those are things I'd like to do), I am making more all-encompassing, formal resolutions; to that end, I am writing my new year's resolutions here this year following the language style noted above. We'll see whether or not this idea's a good one; Congress passes many resolutions, and as they say, if the opposite of pro is con, then the opposite of progress must be... but nevertheless. Here goes.

RESOLUTION: 2009

WHEREAS, I have had many reminders lately of how important it is to appreciate the friends and family with which I've been blessed, AND

WHEREAS, staying healthy and being productive in my work and writing is crucial to my basic survival, AND

WHEREAS, a balance of work and rest, productive time and downtime, social time and one-on-one time is critical to peace of mind,

THEREFORE BE IT RESOLVED that I will spend more time enjoying my loved ones and being grateful for them, and less time worrying or stressing out about trivial matters, AND

BE IT FURTHER RESOLVED that I will be more disciplined about going to the gym and eating healthily, and more focused and productive about both my work and my writing, AND

BE IT FINALLY RESOLVED that in the coming year, I will not only try to more evenly balance my time and commitments, but also that I will expend less energy on regret and stress; instead I will take more deep breaths, shift perspective whenever possible to see someone else's point of view, and regularly, sincerely take the time to feel and express gratitude for the good that surrounds me.

HERE WITNESSED THIS FIRST OF JANUARY, TWO THOUSAND AND NINE OF THE COMMON ERA.

Hasta Lavista, 2008

2008-12-31T11:26:00.005-05:00

I keep seeing news articles today about how relieved everyone is to say adios to 2008. Harsh, unequivocal, "good riddance and don't let the door hit you on your way out" sort of sentiments. Understandable. On the macro-level, this year we've seen extreme violence, national disasters, the crash of the world economy. On the micro-level, it seems like everyone I know - myself included - had to encounter significant, often painful challenges, ranging from loved ones' deaths to health traumas, heartaches to unemployment and financial woes.

Before making any resolutions or talking about 2009 - that post will come tomorrow - I just want to acknowledge 2008. It's been a brutal, trying, testing year. I can't soften that for anyone with any platitudes. But to 2008, in the abstract, I say:

You better have been trying to teach us something, somewhere along the way.
I hope we learned those lessons. I hope we passed most of the tests. I hope very few repeat-classes will be required.
Perspective, huh?
So long, farewell, auf weidersen... adieu.

That's all. I'm holding onto a few of those hard-won lessons, but otherwise... I'm letting this year go, and tomorrow, I'm embracing the new one.

This post is in memory of Richard Donahue, Dr. Paul Schoen, Bryce McVety, Dorothy Childress, and several more friends' and neighbors' parents and grandparents whom I never had the pleasure of knowing; entertainers from Heath Ledger, George Carlin, and Paul Newman to the year's-end passages of Eartha Kitt & Harold Pinter; the victims of disasters both natural and incredibly unnatural in Myanmar, India, China, the Middle East, and throughout the world. As a whole, we survived 2008; but in this year, we lost some of our best and brightest. May all of their memories be a blessing as we move forward into the new year and all coming years.

No Place Like It

2008-12-29T00:39:00.001-05:00

I've complained about my apartment many a time, including here on this blog. But for nearly two years now, it's been my home base - which means I've officially lived in this little space for more consecutive months than I've lived in any other place since moving out of my parents' house in 1999.* I still might have my complaints... but.

After spending most of the last two weeks traveling, not having slept in my own bed for quite some time, I got home Sunday afternoon, let myself in the door, and felt an oddly comfortable thought cross my mind: Ah, I'm home.

My couches. My books. Holiday and birthday cards from friends and family lining the bookshelves. Photographs of favorite faces. And of course, Sof wagging her tail (probably no more excited to see me than to see the friend who dog-sat for her all week, but oh well).

Sometimes it takes being away to make us appreciate these little comforts of home. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, I suppose. I felt genuinely grateful to putter around my apartment, fixing myself some tea, curling up on the couch, doing some writing in my own little corner of the world. It's not so bad, this address. It feels cozy. I'm lucky to have a place as nice as this, and glad to get to spend some time here.

Still wish my windows could open, though.

*This is true. Since 1999, I have lived:
1999-2000 East Quad dorm
2000-2001 Castle Suite with the boys
2001-2002 Rosenthal Suites as an RA
2002-2003 In a lovely apartment in a haunted-mansion looking house near Watertown, MA
May-July 2003 The infamous CRAPHOLE cottage in Belhaven (Jackson, MS)
July 2003-2004 The cool 1950s "GE House of the Future" in Belhaven
July 2004-July 2005 The Seminole Kids House in Fondren (Jackson)
August 2005-May 2006 The odd Colgate apartment in Oak Park, MI
Summer 2006 Ridgeland, MS
August 2006 Terrifying Apartment Where Someone Got Shot Right Outside My Window, Ypsilanti, MI
September 2006 My parents' place (hell of a commute to grad school)
October 2006-April 2007 The Townhouse, Ann Arbor, MI
April 2007-now: This Place (well, this building; I lived in a one-bedroom for April-June 2007, and moved into a two bedroom in July 2007. This Place still wins for longest residency)

The Good Kind of Tired

2008-12-22T00:02:00.003-05:00

It's been a heckuva month, and it's caught up to me. I'm feeling it, and evidently I'm showing it. People are actually telling me "You look really tired." That's not generally synonymous with "you look great."

Sometimes, when life is exhausting, it's for unhappy reasons. Losing sleep over health issues, work stress, a breakup, a fight. To clarify for all those who might be worried because they can see fatigue in my face, or read it in the subtext of what I write lately - yes, I'm tired, but it's largely "good" reasons draining my resources. In the past few weeks, I've had huge work projects, multiple holiday parties, I finished a draft of one play and started outlining another, crossed state lines a few times... The next week will continue to be hectic, though still all for happy reasons - a visit for a grandparent's birthday-celebration, holiday celebrations, a wedding celebration - more crossing of state lines (but maybe a little more down time in each place).

It's the good kind of tired - and in order to prevent it from becoming the kind of tired that leads to falling under the weather, I'm taking a rain check on a "real" post... look for one midweek... and am going to bed. Sweet dreams, dear readers.

What Comes Next?

2008-12-15T00:14:00.003-05:00

I'm racing to finish a script that I want to submit for a December 31 deadline. Well, I say I'm racing; it's not a marathon, though, more like I'm doing a series of sprints to try to get it done. I haven't been able to sit down and work on it for more than one consecutive hour for the past several days.

The script is very different in tone and structure than my usual style. Without revealing anything about the (slightly bizarre) plot, I can say that one of the central questions of the play is "What comes next?"

One of the characters desperately asks another: "What comes next? What am I supposed to do next? I don't know, and I need you to tell me - please - what comes next?"

I feel as if right now that bit of dialogue applies to my process of writing this script... and to my life in general.

I realized today, while driving from one Sunday appointment to the next, that I'm well into my second year of really not knowing what comes next. Clearly, we never really know - but at least for me, all the way up until I went to college, "college" was what would come next. Then I put in four years of college, not knowing exactly what would come next - but before graduating, I signed on for a finite two-year job. So I knew two years of work would come next. And then I was pretty set on the idea that after that, graduate school was what would come next. That too came to pass, and that too was finite and structured - another two years of knowing, at least basically, what was in store for me. Those two years ended in April 2007.

Now, what comes next?

I took one job after graduate school and then unexpectedly moved into another. I didn't expect to change jobs. I moved into a "temporary" apartment with a month to month lease, and expected to move out of that within a few months - but nearly two years later, I'm still in this apartment. I have no quantifiable life timeline at this point. No schedule. No "next."

I have goals and dreams and deadlines, of course. I have busy days, weeks, events on the calendar scheduled for months from now. But no big moves on the immediate horizon, no academic calendar to follow, no next step charted out. Liberating? Terrifying? Depends on the moment.

It's eleven thirty on a Sunday night. I have a conference to attend tomorrow. What comes next? Bedtime. That's all I can say definitively right now.

Erstwhile Weekly Postings

2008-12-10T00:05:00.002-05:00

This poor blog is suffering yet again.

If it's any consolation, dear readers... every night, when I come home tired from work, I dutifully turn on my computer and begin writing. Not blogging, clearly - but I have a full-length play I must finish for a December 31 deadline; a dissertation that a soon-to-be-Ph.D. needed some feedback on; a periodical I edit is going through an exciting overhaul and I'm working on that this week as well...

Don't give up yet. This site is neglected at the moment, but not yet officially abandoned!

If The Glass Slipper Fits...

2008-11-24T23:45:00.005-05:00

I've been remiss in keeping up with this blog, due to a whirlwind of other activity. However, a friend recently asked me to contribute to his theater blog... so while it's a bit of a cheat, perhaps, to re-post what I wrote, that's what I'm doing. In this forum, I may have some family members who will add to/correct/recall additional anecdotes on this piece... about my very first time acting. On another note... this is my 100th post here on Bethweek... enjoy, and happy Thanksgiving, y'all!

"If The Glass Slipper Fits..."

Barefoot children, dirty tear-stained faces, and a girl marrying her own brother.

A sordid new soap opera, “Days of our Over-Stereotyped Incestuous Young Hillbilly Lives”?

Nope. My first play.

The year: 1987. At the ripe old age of six, I was the eldest actor in the show. The director/narrator/costume designer was my mother; the assistant director/seamstress/harried producer was our neighbor; my co-stars were my two little brothers and the neighbor’s two kids; the show was “Cinderella,” and because someone up there has it in for me… yes, somewhere in the deepest recesses of my parents’ archives, there is video footage.

I was playing the title role, cast not due to any particular talent, nor really due to nepotism, but simply because a) I was one of only two girls in the gaggle of neighborhood ruffians, and b) none of the other kids could read yet. Public service announcement: literacy pays off, kids.

My mother had the brilliant idea that our two families should have their kids rehearse a play, then videotape the final performance and send it off to our various scattered relatives as a truly meaningful and original holiday gift. She scouted a location – we would rehearse, perform, and film the performance in the neighbor’s mother’s country home. M & M’s were purchased to bribe any resistant children into becoming thespians. My mother then rented a video camcorder approximately the size and weight of Texas, and we were good to go.

The cast was as follows:

· Cinderella – me

· Evil Stepmother – voice of my mother (offscreen)

· Evil Stepsisters – my little brother Adam (age 2) and the neighbor’s son (age 3)

· Evil Stepsister’s Feet (for camera close-ups of the epic “shoe doesn’t fit” scene) – my mom and the neighbor

· Fairy Godmother – neighbor’s daughter (age 4)

· Horses – Adam and the neighbor’s son

· The Prince – my little brother Jake (age 4)

The play kicked off with me sweeping the hearth, learning of the ball, being told by my sobbing evil stepsisters (some bitter dispute between the neighbor boy and my brother over M & M’s led to them bawling throughout every scene they were in) that I was not allowed to go to the ball. When they exited, I sat on a chair and cried “Now I shall never go to the ball!” with appropriate melodrama – completely upstaged by my underwear flashing the audience.

(Let’s recall that this is all caught on film. My parents threaten that when I bring home a fiancée, they will break out this VHS, and if he can watch our “Cinderella” and still want to join the family/hold my hand, he will be officially vetted.)

But then, of course, came the fairy godmother. In our production, however, the benevolent spirit was a petulant little girl who screamed each line at the top of her lungs. As in: “I AM YOUR FAIRY GODMOTHER! I HAVE COME TO GET YOU READY FOR THE BALL!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Then, completely deaf but in a beautiful dress, I went out to my carriage – a Radio Flyer wagon with puffy-paint and glitter-glue decorated cardboard cut-outs enhancing its “carriage” look. The carriage was drawn by two horses – my brother and the neighbor kid in sweatsuits, with yarn-manes and yarn-tails stapled to them, howling over some M & M injustice. Arriving at the ball, the prince (a.k.a. my other little brother, very bitter about having to be involved in this production) grabbed my hand and began yelling at me. This provided me with very little motivation to look sad when the bells began to toll and I told him, flatly, “Oh no. I must go.”

Kicking my foot furiously to make sure I left a shoe behind, I raced off. My prince/brother shouted, “Wait!” and went to pick up the shoe, then decided it hadn’t been dramatic enough, so put down the shoe, backed up, yelled “Wait!” again, and picked up the shoe for a second time as the horses wailed in the background.

In one of my all-time favorite “This American Life” episodes, Ira Glass dissects the meaning of “fiasco” – and, appropriately, uses the story of a community theater production of “Peter Pan” gone horribly wrong to illustrate just what a “fiasco” entails. My “Cinderella story” truly is more aptly dubbed a “Cinderella fiasco” – but more than two decades later, it’s interesting to note where that cast and production staff has landed.

My mother, the strung-out young director chasing young children around a makeshift set, is currently writing the final pages of her dissertation on youth theater. No joke – with four kids grown and living on their own (one of whom was not even born at the time of the now legendary ’87 off-off-off-off-off-off-off-Broadway Cinderella revival) she’s finishing up a Ph.D. in theater. My sobbing horse/step-sister brother, A, is pursuing an acting career in Chicago. I’m still a theater junkie, usually involved in some production and constantly trying to write the next great American play.

We all start somewhere. My first play might have been a fiasco, and could have been a one-shot-deal, a good childhood story that never led to anything… but that’s not how this tale ended. Because for some of us, theater never becomes a pumpkin – it’s always that magic carriage (or Radio Flyer wagon decorated with glittering cardboard). It’s what keeps taking us to the ball, the prince, the next happily-ever-after we share with the next audience. We get to be the fairy tale. What’s better than that?

To Kill A Mockingbird

2008-11-02T23:21:00.006-05:00

Harper Lee's "To Kill a Mockingbird" is one of those books that I remember reading as a child. I don't just mean I remember the book itself, the plot, the characters - I mean, I remember reading it: fighting against sleep at night to stay up and read it, devouring paragraphs in the way-back of the family station wagon until I got motion sick, curling up on the couch and turning page after page. I was probably ten or so when I first read "Mockingbird." There were so many things I learned from that book: like the child narrator Scout, I didn't know what rape was, what injustice really meant, what "social mores" were until I encountered that story. Tonight, I saw a production of the stage show for the first time, and encountering that story again, it made me wonder: how far have we come?

The surface answer, of course, is very far. Our schools are desegregated. A "jury of our peers" does not mean "limited to white men." We even have a mixed-heritage/African-American Democratic candidate for president. As a nation, we are more "tolerant."

But that's only the surface answer.

This post is not an endorsement for any particular candidate, but as we're heading into an historic presidential election, with this Tuesday looming near, my only plea is this: don't let hate, fear-mongering, and latent fear of "the other" dictate your vote. More than that - whoever you're supporting, take a stand the next time you hear someone make the election about fear and intolerance. Because the undercurrent, and sometimes overt use of such fear-mongering, is what really scares me - particularly because of how much attention children, our own contemporary, real-life Scouts, are paying to this election.

I have seen several posts on Facebook, as well as comments on blogs and YouTube, from kids I know to be as young as eleven, saying terrifying things. Calling Obama a devil-worshipper, for instance. Saying that anyone who doesn't "vote Christian" isn't a "good American" - upsetting on so many levels. These statements from such young people are perpetuating such old, dangerous ideas. And what's most unsettling is that so many of these young people, because they hear these falsehoods from adults and find "evidence" online and all around them to support them, really believe that they have accurate information. Here's a post someone who identifies himself (herself?) as "too young to vote" left in response to a silly Hockey-Mama-for-Obama Youtube video:

"dumb bitch why don't you study up on politics. I'm not old enough to vote but i know for damn sure i did more homework on this election. OBAMA IS A TERRORIST. Send his punk ass back to Africa."

This sounds like one angry kid - one angry kid utterly confident in his/her opinion being not only right, but also based on "fact."S/he can certainly find plenty of similar sentiments online, "evidence" to back up these claims (though it's all about how you run the search: go to Fact Check, Snopes, or any number of other political OR apolitical sites and the race/religion/anti-American/fear-based rumors about Barack Obama are pretty instantly disproved). Bias exists on both sides, and if you only want to confirm what you think you know, it's easier and easier to do so.

My politics are no secret, but as I stated earlier, this isn't an endorsement post. I have many dear Conservative friends who will be supporting McCain/Palin, and when it's because they agree with their policies, I can respect that. However, when I run in to people who are voting for the Republicans because they are "terrified of what would happen if That Obama gets elected" - it makes me shiver.

All the more so when I hear and see hateful messages from those too young to vote. It is our responsibility to be better role models. Having two major political parties is one thing; fostering violent divides, and fanning the flames even more when race/religion come into play, is flat-out dangerous. When adults encourage children to think of people who don't share their skin color, or go to the same house of worship, or attend the same schools, as being separate and unequal from them, we are teaching a terrible lesson. So please, don't take us backwards. Don't let difference continue to divide. Let's remember to be United, not stratified; let's do it for every Scout waiting to see how the jury will respond.

Dramamine's Not Enough

2008-10-27T11:04:00.002-04:00

See, this is why I don't ride carnival rides.

(And having WAY too much going on this week is why I'm taking the lazy way out in terms of a post here this week...)

AND YIKES - this real article turned up when I was searching for a carnival ride image...

...so much for me making light of my fear of rides.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

2008-10-19T20:12:00.004-04:00

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Theater has been a part of my life for almost as long as my memory extends. I was recently cast in a role that requires quite a bit of dancing. Not just group dance numbers - but solo dance numbers. Including a solo tap dance. I've never taken tap; never even donned tap shoes prior to a few weeks ago. I've been acting since I was four years old; I've done a fair amount of singing; but, a tap solo? I was frankly terrified. I have to admit: I questioned the casting. Why would the director give me this part? I thought. This is not my a role that emphasizes my strongest onstage assets. This is not the role I would assign myself.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

News came knocking two weeks ago; on the heels of the death of a dear friend, now there is the failing health of my grandmother. She fell several weeks ago, stayed with my parents in Michigan for awhile, then returned to her home in Toledo; then seemed to be slipping, and went to live with my aunt in Chicago; then, slipping further, was admitted to Lutheran General Hospital in Park Ridge, Illinois - the hospital where I was born. Soon after being admitted to the hospital, she suffered a stroke.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Learning the basics of tap in one crash course, knowing I subsequently have to learn the actual choreography, and be ready to perform the routine confidently in front of an audience by month's end, is both exhilarating and nerve-wracking. The tap solo isn't my only dance in the show; though I've given up kickboxing during this rehearsal period, my muscles ache from practicing the dances over and over and over, trying to make my body accept that it needs to move in new ways.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Staying in touch with family, getting daily updates, hearing over and over the phrase two-steps-forward, one-step-back: this is part of my new routine. On top of working full-time in one office, part-time in another, while also teaching a night class at a local college, and rehearsing the show, is taxing enough; worrying about my grandmother, and my father, and my mother, and my brothers and sister and extended family... the routine only gets more complicated once we learn the basic steps. Fortunately, I have some good partners; a steady rhythm; and other things to think about, like learning choreography.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

So I've just about learned the dance. I still mess up, but of course, the main rule is: keep going. If you falter, if you get off-beat, if you miss a step - you just keep going. Sometimes I have to go back and re-learn the parts I thought I knew; and then other times, unexpectedly, my mind will be blank right up until my cue and then, without thought or hesitation, I am suddenly at the end of the dance, having remembered every step, hit every mark.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

I still worry about my family. I am far away, but never removed from them. I spoke to my grandmother on the phone the day before her most recent stroke; she joked about finding a boyfriend in the hospital. Unexpectedly, we laughed.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Sometimes we're cast in roles we wouldn't assign ourselves. The expectations are unclear, the damn shoes are more expensive than we want them to be, our muscles ache, our feet are too slow and fall behind the music. And then bit by bit, we learn the basic steps, and as we start to learn the dance, we really just have to bear in mind the main rule: keep going.

Better Late (Um, But Still Not Just Yet)

2008-10-13T01:20:00.004-04:00

I have a post from last week, and a post from this, though neither is quite finished, and thus, both are still saved as drafts and not yet posted...

I also have a long list of other writing projects/general tasks to complete...

... and sitting here at a little after midnight Sunday night/Monday morning, all I can say as far as how well I did on the ol' to-do list tonight is goodness gracious, my apartment has never been cleaner...

... a sure sign of procrastination. Happy Monday.

The Trolley Ride

2008-10-05T19:43:00.005-04:00

I rode the Memphis trolley this weekend.

I've taken the trolley once before. It was about three years ago; I still have a photo somewhere, if I went looking for it, from that ride. In the photo, my eyes are closed. I look peaceful. It's misleading. Now I can see the hidden layers to the picture, the chaos beneath the serenity caught in the click of the lens. To the other passengers, giving a casual glance at our bench, or the photograph, everything would have seemed picturesque, serene, even enviable. A smooth ride for the passengers bumping along the tracks. They couldn't see the darker shadows in the picture... and neither could I. My eyes were closed.

There's a picture from this weekend's trolley ride, too. A self-portrait of two people, this time eyes open, squinting a little in the sun, or maybe suppressing a laugh. There weren't many other people on the trolley, and they didn't pay much attention to our picture. But I was paying attention, and grateful for what I saw. No dark shadows. A much more honest picture. A much better ride on the trolley. My eyes are open, I'm not afraid to look around, and I'm so much happier with what I'm seeing these days.

Year/Change

2008-09-28T23:37:00.009-04:00

One year.

It is amazing how much can change, happen, or cease within the span of a year. New chapters begin, even as other books close. Old fears are overcome as new fears begin haunting us. Unexpected connections, new ideas and blossoming relationships renew us. How can we even begin to absorb, let alone process, everything that touches our lives within the span of a year?

I'm one of those lucky people who gets to have multiple opportunities each year for annual reflection. (That sentence reads like one long oxymoron, but bear with me.) My favorite secular holiday is New Year's eve/day - champagne, kissing, the opportunity for a clean slate, resolutions. What's not to like? So January brings me one new year. Then over on the Jewish holiday circuit, each fall, there's Rosh Hashanah - apples, honey, kissing (okay, so kissing cheeks more than kissing-kissing, but nevertheless), the opportunity for a clean slate, reflection. Again - what's not to like?

I need reflection. Thus, it seems to make sense that I'd require multiple new years. (Clearly, someone up there knew what they were doing when they doled me out an extra helping of let's-start-again.) Of course, even with the generous helping of new year celebrations in my life, I'm always seeking more opportunities to stop and reflect, remember where I was a year ago, who I was with for this day in some other year. I seize on holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, lifecycle events (weddings and funerals, in particular, but the occasional baptism or bar mitzvah can also provide ample opportunity for reflection).

So I have lots of practice reflecting. But this year - from last autumn to this autumn - has bested me: I can't sum it up.

Anything pithy seems weak. In my own life and the lives of those around me, there has been so much joy and so much pain in the past year. The pendulum swung to one side and brought us unanticipated health struggles, deaths of loved ones, heartbreak at the end of relationships. It swung to the other and brought new opportunities for love, exciting life changes, inspiration, and of course, those ever-symbolic little babies (including a very cute redheaded one in Massachusetts). A simple listing of such events doesn't capture their impact, and for some reason, reflect and remember as I might, I cannot find a way to convey how this year, so much more than any other, propelled so many of us forward into the next phase of our life, alternately soothing and mercilessly pummeling us along the way.

The traditional Jewish greeting on Rosh Hashanah is "L'Shanah Tovah" - "to a good year." Shanah, the Hebrew word for "year," has another meaning: "change." The root letters for the two words are the same: shanah shapes the word year, and its sister word, change. It is one of those goosebump-linguistic moments, where the simple relationships of words begins to scratch the surface of something much larger: we cannot encounter a year without experiencing change. If we do not change, and we remain static, over the course of a year... we have not really embraced that year. Change can be wonderful, and change can be bitterly painful; but change is life, and each shanah brings the next shanah.

That's all I have to offer, after all my reflection for this year; I will leave you with an excerpt from the Rosh Hashanah liturgy, called in some prayerbooks "A Prayer for the United States of America" and in others, simply, "A Prayer for Our Nation," which emphasizes the kind of change I hope to see from our country and all countries:*

Grant us peace, Your most precious gift, O Eternal Source of peace, and give us the will to proclaim its message to all the peoples of the earth. Bless our country that it may always be a stronghold of peace, and its advocate among the nations. May contentment reign within its borders, health and happiness within its homes. Strengthen the bonds of friendship among the inhabitants of all lands ... Blessed is the Eternal God, the Source of peace.

*Not to go all political or anything, but it IS true that my next annual opportunity for reflection will fall in January... and in January 2009, we'll be swearing in a new president, and I hope the change reflected above (LET THE UNITED STATES BE A STRONGHOLD OF PEACE AND ITS ADVOCATE AMONG THE NATIONS!) is the sort of change that will seem optimistic, but not unrealistic. L'shanah tovah!

Remembering Richard

2008-09-21T11:47:00.010-04:00

This is how I remember Richard:

I think of him clad all in black, with a headset decorating the side of his face. Making sure the technical aspects of the theater were firmly in place, so the children onstage could be seen and heard. Providing the foundation.

I think of him patiently waiting for my parents' only-very-selectively-friendly dog, Jackson, to warm up to him, rather than writing him off as a "bad dog," as so many guests tend to do.

I think of him with soft voice and active eyes.

I think of him remembering the details, asking specific questions about the things that directly pertained to you.

I first met Richard when his daughter, my now much cherished friend M, was in a play. Through Rachel's Eyes was the first play I ever wrote. It was also the first play I ever directed. I was fourteen. M was eleven, and I had never meet her prior to the Through Rachel's Eyes audition. M, like her father, is quiet, with a soft voice and active eyes, constantly absorbing the details. I remember not only how seriously M took the show, but also how seriously her parents took it - here I was, a fourteen year old kid, setting rehearsal schedules and wrangling a multi-generational group into a community theater production... the perfect set-up for a farce, or at least a project to smile and nod at while secretly writing off... and yet Richard and his wife K (the one with the laugh that makes the whole room warmer - unlike her daughter or husband, K is never quiet with the laughter) treated the whole endeavor, and everyone involved, with complete respect, support and appreciation, throughout the process.

I remember, later on, meeting his son, D, and watching him grow from a quiet little boy who shied from the limelight into a young man who fills the stage, a young man who has already begun to so resemble his father.

I think of Richard sitting on the MYT Board of Directors with my parents, committing time and energy to ensure that not only his own children, but many, many people's children could benefit from the theater magic that MYT creates.

I remember last Thanksgiving. After most of the guests had departed my parents' home, the rest of us packed up some leftovers, piled into two cars and drove through the snow to visit Richard and his family. We sat in the cozy living room, drinking tea and sharing theater stories, holiday stories, life stories. It was such a lovely, familial night.

These are some of the most vivid ways that I remember Richard.

There are other memories, of course; I remember visiting him this summer, at the hospital, when I was in town for our friend's wedding. Even then, with as much sterile sternness as that hospital room tried to impose, we shared stories and jokes until he grew tired. I remember his blog, his candor about his battles, and the last post that still greets me each time I click the link on my blog that carries me to his. "Just like sands through the hourglass."

The sands passed through the hourglass faster than any of us would have guessed, back when he wrote that final blog post. And while the most recent memories will always linger, they are overpowered by the dozen years' worth of memories of the kind man, clad in black, who befriended my entire family, quietly making things happen, with a headset connecting him to the young actors onstage. Providing the foundation.

Richard passed away on September 16, in the presence of his loving family, K, M, and D. His loss is felt in so many lives. May his memory always be a blessing, for all of us.

I. Love. Tina. Fey.

2008-09-15T15:10:00.001-04:00

R A I N

2008-09-14T23:05:00.009-04:00

I wrote in April about the unexpected tornadoes that ripped through Jackson. I reported that, inexplicably, my neighborhood was virtually undamaged, while others were completely torn apart. This was the lesson I tried to carve out from those storms:

"The storm doesn't always touch down [on you]. But there's usually someone being impacted by some sort of storm, somewhere. Hold a good thought that those without roofs and without power are soon fully restored... and maybe this week can be a reminder that even when we're doing just fine ourselves, someone is always under the thunder."

I meant it as a metaphor for more than literal storms, of course. And while I don't disagree with the metaphor, re-reading it tonight I feel hopelessly pithy. (And not in the good way.) Thinking about all the actual challenges hurtling themselves recklessly into people's lives, who needs a metaphor? I'm frustrated by the weakness of it; the presumption that some sort of comfort or meaning could be gleaned from words. And yet... I am often far from those I want to hug in their times of trial, and my words are all I have to offer. And sometimes, even those fail me. So when I find some words, small comfort as they may be, I try to share them. And when I have none- well, luckily we're not always required to pray out loud.

Wishing, hoping, thinking, praying.... that though storms must come, there will also be peace and healing in the rain that follows. Maybe even a little laughter. Literally.

Touchdown!

2008-09-09T10:29:00.006-04:00

Well, sports fans, it's an exciting week in the Fantasy Football world. As many of you know, I'm new to this world. Total neophyte. First timer. The ultimate rookie. I'm not really sure all of the rules, the ins and outs, the choreography to the dance that is Fantasy Football. (In fact, I bet that line I used just now about choreography officially made me a total and forever sports outsider. Except... wait... don't football players sometimes take ballet? Ha! I sort of know something!)

HOWEVER, while I'm new to the game of Fantasy Football, I do know a thing or two about kicking ass.... or so I thought.

See, in reading this excellent article on Miami 305's victory of El Pollo Diablo, I noted that this win was characterized as a "triumphant victory"... with Miami coach Rubinoff even commenting "I wish I hadn't beaten up so much on those Diablos."

The score in that triumphant, beating-on-the-Diablos victory was 100 to 92.

Meanwhile, over in my match-up... my team, Team Kanderrr. Grr., scored 106 while coach Sarver's LandSharks scored....

....wait for it...

....29.

And I'm torn, sports fans. I'm truly torn. I'm, like, Tom Brady's-ACL-torn.

Because part of me feels like doing a big ol' victory dance (I know - again with the dancing) about the ASS-KICKING OF THE SEASON -- and part of me just feels like, man. There's no glory in this. It's just kind of... sad. And I think maybe I shouldn't gloat. You shouldn't feel good about just ... massacreing your opponent.

Except. A quick recap: Sarver tried to thwart my ability to really play this season. That's right - scandal in Fantasyland! When there was an error in my Fantasy Football account and I couldn't switch players or monitor my team, ol' Chip was all about the sabotage: "Come on, guys... she couldn't make the draft... she's new... and she's a girl!!! Don't fix her account!" But Commissioner Green believes in fair play, and came through.

So, I think the lesson today is that while for some, sports is a religion... that religion clearly gives a nod to KARMA.

KANDERRR! GRR!

*PS, yes, I am well aware, if karma is a part of this game, I totally and completely flat-out shot myself in the foot for the rest of the season. Worth it.

Such Heavy Pieces of Paper

2008-09-07T22:40:00.011-04:00

Tonight I decided to do one of those tasks I dread - sifting through The Papers.

"The Papers" are the contents, should-be-contents, and should-be-discarded contents of my file cabinet. They range from utility bills to tax forms, letters from old friends to graduate school transcripts, unsorted photographs to automobile titles. Some of these papers are Very Important, some Very Nostalgic, and as evidenced by the two stuffed bags beside me at the moment, some are Very Obsolete.

There are many reasons I dread dealing with The Papers. There are the obvious reasons: it's tedious, it's time consuming, and though it's necessary, it's not a noticeably productive chore like doing the dishes or designating clothes for consignment. Then there are the paranoid reasons I avoid the task: what if I find a bill still unpaid, what if I accidentally discard something and put it through the office shredder only to desperately need it in a month, what if I get the world's worst paper cut?

But the most serious issue that arises in dealing with The Papers is dealing with the memories that they turn up, and the current life situations that the tedious, repetitive task allows me to ponder. Tonight was no exception: recollection and reality surfacing as I sifted through the files.

I found a romantic card from a high school crush whose signature I couldn't decipher (and whose name I couldn't remember). I recycled that card and felt a little lighter.

I found cards from my friend Evelyn, who died not long ago, and from both of my grandmothers, one of whom is currently hospitalized after a fall. I tucked those carefully back into the file.

I found a bank statement from the checking account I had my freshman year of college - an account that's been closed since 2002, with a bank that no longer exists (having since been purchased by a larger bank - gotta love the corporate oligarchy). That went into the shred-bag.

I found photograph after photograph, dating from about 1995 to 2006 (likely the last time I took the time to really deal with The Papers). It was an odd mixture of emotions to see picture after picture of me with various people who used to fill my days, but who now I may have gone a decade without seeing. It was also heartening to see the pictures of the people who still grab a camera and snap a self-portrait with me at their brother's wedding, or at one of our plays, or in my parents' living room.

But as I sorted through paper after paper, picture after picture, finding most too important to discard... I just felt overwhelmed by the fragility of it all. The relative unimportance of keeping these documents organized: I would much rather have the people than the papers, and if my apartment burned down tomorrow, so long as Sofia and I got out okay, well, I'd mourn the loss of the writing notebooks and the photographs and cards, but in the end - I'd get over it. And if God forbid something happened to me, would it make it easier for anyone that I'd kept the programs from most of my theatrical productions and that I've filed all my utility bills?

I did have time to think as I sorted, and think I did. In the past week, the fragility of life has been shoved in my face multiple times. A friend - more an acquaintance, but one to whom I have many connections (she's a very good friend of D's, her boyfriend is a friend of mine, I know her parents, and we have many other mutual friends) - a young woman a few years younger than I, fell from her apartment building in New York and is fighting hard in a New York hospital, with a broken neck, broken back, broken pelvis, broken ribs - though also with a strong support system and an unbroken spirit. Another friend - one whom I have not spoken to in over a year, just after she gave birth to her second child - wrote me out of the blue, and told me in her letter that while her first child was thriving, her second child had only lived four and a half months before dying of heart failure, quietly, at an army base hospital. Another friend - a family friend whose entire family is friends with my entire family, whose faces turned up time and time again in my old photos - has only just been released from the hospital in Michigan after being there since March... and his health struggles continue. And now my grandmother, my Bubbe, is in a hospital in Toledo.

Knowing the delicacy of it all, how can I ever justify spending an evening organizing papers? Shouldn't I be writing, dancing, snuggling, cooking, having a glass of wine, telling a joke, visiting family, visiting old friends, planning a vacation?

I have to trust that I'll have another day to do those things, even though there are no guarantees. Can't use the "carpe diem" theory to avoid housework and bill-sorting. And that's life, I suppose. Tedium and trauma and triumph keeping pace with one another, joined along the way by love and frustration and setbacks and breakthroughs.

I know that nostalgia makes me a cheeseball, but the emotions and reflections are genuine. I'm sitting on my couch now, feeling more introspective than I'd like. The file drawers are shut for now. I've given some time to The Papers. I might just go pour myself a glass of wine now, and then say a little prayer for the healing of body and soul that so many of our loved ones need... and then go to bed, and look forward to tomorrow, with gratitude for life itself, and its endless variety.

Waiting for Gustav

2008-08-30T18:58:00.008-04:00

Posting a bit early this week.... though Gustav is not predicted to blow into town before Monday, the brewing storm is already impacting gas prices, gas pump lines, traffic, grocery shopping, and work-planning, so in a few minutes of calm,with internet securely in place, power still on, and all errands run, there is time to write.

Yesterday was the three-year anniversary of Hurricane Katrina - and today, New Orleans and Gulf Coast residents are preparing for evacuation. Tomorrow, contraflow will be enacted, with highways all flowing North to speed the exodus. Unlike in 2005, there is far more planning for this storm. Buses wait all around New Orleans; Mississippi Public Broadcasting gives updates of which shelters, college campuses, camps, churches and other makeshift evacuation sites will be opening when; even here in Jackson, two hundred miles from the coast, residents are stocking up on water, flashlights, and gas. It could be that this storm will not be as bad as we fear; but no one - and certainly not government officials - wants to get caught unprepared this time around.

It's strange to wait for a hurricane. Right now it's sunny and 91 degrees. I worked this morning, got a haircut, ran errands, gave the dog a bath, vacuumed, cleared out my car, ran the dishwasher, tried to do anything that I might later regret not having done before losing power, or having all the local filling stations run out of gas (several already have), or not being able to use my water.

I keep thinking back to three years ago. I left Mississippi for graduate school in Michigan just before Katrina ravaged the state. Watching from afar, I felt almost guilty for not being there. I signed up for a recovery trip, journeying back down to Mississippi a few months after the storm. I flew into Jackson, celebrated my birthday with some friends, and then drove down to Biloxi. Driving down highway 90, through towns once familiar, I started crying and couldn't stop. My whole first day on the coast, I alternated between fighting tears and succumbing to them. And then I spent two weeks roofing houses and clearing debris. And then I left. Back to Michigan, to snow and ice, but cities intact.

I spent the summer of 2006 in Jackson, and moved back full-time in April of 2007. Neither of the last two summer saw a big storm. Somehow, I feel like I've been waiting for Gustav for three years. I hope he's a lot less exciting than I imagined him to be.

My prayers this weekend are for the safety of everyone in the storm's path. In the meantime, our senses of humor are still intact. I just received the following text message from a friend: "Hurricane party at my house tomorrow night! Bring your perishables. (FYI: Alcohol is perishable.)"

Yeah, Write Whatever!

2008-08-19T12:15:00.002-04:00

All right, dear Bethweek readers - a rare request for assistance!

I'm working on a project called "Yeah, Write Whatever!" (YWW) that we genuinely believe will positively impact kids' reading and writing skills. Our new nonprofit, Imagination Education, Inc., is partnering with Eyevox and the Mississippi Board of Education to make this happen. We have a great idea and the right partners.... and now, our YWW team has a really exciting opportunity in front of us - we're one of the projects competing for funding from American Express through their Members Project initiative - AND YOU CAN HELP US WIN!

It costs nothing, you don't have to be (or become) an American Express cardmember, and it literally takes about 3 minutes. (PLUS, if you want, you can watch our savvy little promo video, and you may recognize some of the faces....)

PLEASE, PLEASE go vote and help us make the Top 25 for funding consideration! Here's how:

1. Go to www.membersproject.com
2. On the top right, click on "Guest Members Login"
3. This will take you to the login page. At the bottom of the page, click "Guest Members sign up here."
4. Sign up! (They just ask for name, email, and to choose a password)
5. You can then "search projects." If you enter "Write" in the search box, "Yeah, Write Whatever" will turn up.
6. Nominate, leave a comment, and feel excellent about doing your good deed for the day!

A special note if you DO happen to be an American Express cardholder: as an AE cardmember, you get to vote all the way through the final round, so PLEASE bookmark our page and support "Yeah, Write Whatever!" all the way through!!

If you have any questions or want more information, email me, leave a comment on this blog, or give a shout!

Thank you.

Beth

P.S. Please re-post this, forward it on, help us spread the word! Voting closes on SEPTEMBER 1, 2008. We have a real shot at this, with your help. Thanks again!!

So, what do you think of your haircut?

2008-08-17T23:13:00.002-04:00

Sofia? Excuse me, Sofia? Would you mind answering a few questions about your new haircut?

Great... thank you! Okay. So. First question. We'll start with an easy one. What was your initial reaction when you first heard that Beth was going to be shaving you this year instead of sending you to the professionals?

Hmm, I see. So in general, do you think your owner makes good decisions about your appearance, or do you wish you had a little more control/opposable thumbs/money? (OMG! Your eyes totally just went up and to the left! You said nice things but you were LYING, weren't you, pup?!)

All right, all right, last question. Do you think your haircut will become "The Farrah" or "The Rachel" for your generation of husky-mix rescue dogs living in the new South?

Yeah, I couldn't take that question seriously either. Thanks for your time, pooch, and have a great week!

--The BWInterview Team

Shear Genius - Canine Edition

2008-08-10T21:34:00.006-04:00

Sorry not to post it earlier... but here is the photo journal of the Summer 2008 Shaving of Sofia.

First, for any readers who don't know her, this is what Sofia normally looks like:

She is a pretty, fluffy husky mix.

That is, pretty and fluffy when it's a reasonable temperature outside. Sweltering Mississippi summers make it hard to think of her as anything other than an Unstoppable Shedding Machine. So, though it always makes people burst out laughing at the poor creature's expense... I caved and shaved the husky again.

And this time, I bought a razor and did it myself.

The photo-journal follows. Enjoy.

At first, it wasn't so bad. We went out on the back porch, armed with razor, brush, and a positive attitude:

I think Sof knew what it meant when I said "oops" and took out a giant chunk of neck-fur...

And then the haphazard back-shaving began... (I actually think it should be considered a plus that I know zilch about back-shaving)

Then my friend O showed up and schooled me a little on how the shaving business is run:

But Sofia started looking awwwwwfully nervous when he went for the neck.

It ultimately took another two days of me using my evenings to plow through that thick husky hair... but finally, she was fairly evenly shorn. So then I interviewed her about her reactions to her new look.

....and those are the best of the photos, but unfortunately the stupid computer is now refusing to let me upload them, even when I just tried creating a second post, so hopefully Blogger will be more friendly tomorrow, and there will be a Part II to this post...

On the (Eek!) Road Again

2008-08-03T23:15:00.011-04:00

Traveling scares me.

This might come as something of a surprise, since I tend to travel ... quite a bit. It's a rare month that I don't cross state lines. In fact, I have done less traveling in the past year than in any of the previous five, and yet I still have Silver Elite Status on a certain oft-bankrupt airline, and off the top of my head, in the past year I can name trips to the following places:

Memphis, TN
Massachusetts (Westboro/Marblehead for a fall wedding, just Marblehead for a spring baby)
Austin, TX
Michigan (three times)
Chicago, IL
Alabama (Birmingham twice, Florence once, Huntsville once, Daphne once)
Louisiana (New Orleans once, Monroe once, Baton Rouge once)
The Secret Trip (long story)
Mississippi's Gulf Coast (three times)
Washington DC
Georgia (Macon once, Atlanta once)
Oxford, MS

(Amazingly, all of those trips were either for work or scheduled over a weekend/holiday weekend. I haven't taken an actual vacation since Costa Rica 2005. Haven't used a single "vacation day" from work since moving back down here in April 2007. I know - I'm a total idiot on that front.)

So it's pretty clear that even in a "light" travel year, I do a lot of traveling. And literally every time I travel, I get nervous. I clean my house before I leave, so that if God forbid something happens while I'm gone - someone needs to go pick something up from my house to bring me to the hospital while I recover from a nasty car crash, say - I won't have left a mess. I try to make sure that the last interaction I had with my closest people was positive. (Traveling while in a tiff with someone is not always avoidable, but I do what I can.) I always make sure to have plenty scheduled for when I get back, so that I'm subtly reassuring and reminding myself that the plan is, in fact, to make it back safe and sound.

--As I write this, it sure does sound paranoid. It's all more subtle than it sounds -- but the point is, there is some little voice of warning chiming away in a corner of my mind, a little edge of fear tracing itself around me as I prepare for the next trip. Always that little lurch in my stomach when I hit the road, when the plane takes off, when I navigate the unfamiliar neighborhood. Especially when I travel alone, which is most often the case.

Is it some remnant of something? In my own past - or, in some larger communal past? Could well be that the fear is by design. Protective, some ingrained type of self-preservation. After all, just a few generations ago, traveling was far rarer than it is today. It was common for people to never leave their own hometown, let alone state or country... let alone dozens of times a year. On some deep, patterned level, is there a fear of leaving the familiar and venturing into the unknown, with all the risks of highway bandits and choppy seas along the way?

Maybe. I'll probably never know... but the more important realization is this: I still travel. I'm scared every time, but it doesn't stop me from booking the next ticket or planning the next road trip. Perhaps the lesson is not that I need to get over my fear of travel - but that in some other areas of my life, I need to use my Nervous Frequent Flier status as a reference point. Just because I fear something doesn't mean I should avoid it. At the end of the day... traveling might be a risk, but it's one I'll keep on taking. It's something I want in my life.

Knowing that... perhaps I should aim for Silver Elite Status on a few of the other items on my List of Scary Things.

PS I know I promised some of my loyal readers that this week would be a photo-essay about Sofia's recent haircutting experience. However, I'm at a hotel, out of town, without my camera-transferring-cords... so I can't upload the photos. Thus, this will be a double Bethweek week. I'll post the Sof photos once I'm back home, safe and sound.

Sorry for taking an easy out for the evening...

2008-07-27T23:47:00.002-04:00

http://www.collegehumor.com/video:1823766

Something more original sometime when I'm more awake.

Home SWEETER Home

2008-07-20T12:10:00.004-04:00

I like my current apartment. I do. I like that I have a spare bedroom for wandering friends. I like all the natural light from the big windows. I like my curving 1920's art-deco walls, my hardwood floors, and most of all, my beautiful flora-filled corner of the Belhaven neighborhood. I feel very lucky to have the home that I do; I like it.

However. I do not love my current apartment. I have been feeling this lack of love quite acutely this weekend. Thus, as a wish list I'm putting out there into the universe for consideration, here is a list of things that I would love to have in my next living space - things that are wanting in my current one:

1. A backyard for Sofia. This is the biggie. I hate that my poor dog has no backyard. And currently, when my little husky is shedding her undercoat, I hate that instead of putting her outside in a nice shady yard to shed to her heart's content, I am vacuuming three times a day to keep up with the fluff. (This week's post was thiiiiiis close to being called "I Caved And Shaved the Husky Again." Depending on how much the shedding abates this week, that may well be next week's post.)

2. Windows that open. Particularly in the summer, it gets quite stuffy. And I know it lets AC escape, and blah blah blah, but call me crazy, I LIKE breathing real air. (NONE of the windows in my current apartment open. Not even a little bit. They are all painted/sealed shut.)

3. A kitchen big enough that more than one person can be in there at a time. Enough said.

4. Cell phone signal. I get NONE in my bedrooms or kitchen, and very little anywhere else in the apartment. I even switched from the cellular provider that rhymes with Hint to the one that rhymes with Hey Bee and Bee, since I was told service would be better. It's a lie. Service is still nil. I am cut off from the rest of the world when I plug my phone into the charger. "Emergency calls only" can be made from my room. Yet I need the phone in my room for said emergencies, and for its alarm clock feature. I am often unreachable when at home. It's almost enough to make me want to get a landline. Except that seems so... committed. And clearly, I remain uncommitted to this apartment. Though officially I've now lived in this apartment for over a year (and have been paying rent in this building for a year and a half).

I'm not asking for fireplaces, a Viking-stocked kitchen, stone or brick exterior, walk-in closets, spa-bathtubs, a pool, a built-in bar and vaulted ceilings. (Though universe, if you're listening and any/all of these are available, I wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth.) I just want a little outdoor access, a little air, options for cooking-with-a-buddy, and some good conversation. I think I am being very reasonable. Thanks for your consideration.

As I Lay Me Down to Sleep

2008-07-16T23:19:00.011-04:00

I've been having some upsetting recurring dreams lately. Interspersed with some new stress-dreams, last night I had a nightmare that has officially plagued me since 2003: the one where it turns out that there was this class I signed up for and never attended, and never remembered to drop, and thus failed, and thus my college diploma is revoked.

This dream definitely has staying power. (In fact, since 2007, there's even a new variation, less frequent but still scary, where there's this class I signed up for and never attended ,and never remembered to drop, and thus failed, and thus my graduate degree is revoked.)

It's incredibly vivid: I'm sitting there on the final day of classes, and while everyone around me is giddy with excitement, talking about graduation and the new jobs that await them and all of the golden roads ahead, a cold feeling of fear grips my gut and spreads slowly through the rest of my body as I realize: Oh no, oh no no no, that American Studies class with Professor W*... I registered for it, but I don't remember going to a single freaking class...

Hoping I can slip in on that day and somehow Professor W will not have noticed my entire semester of absences, I go racing around, trying to find the classroom. I'm looking for the booklets that list all the classes and their locations, but of course, so late in the term, they're nowhere to be found. I run throughout the humanities quad, finally locating the classroom just as Professor W is passing out the final. I know none of the material on the test, and the teacher's look tells me he knows I haven't been present - but now I have to take the final, though it's an exercise in humiliation and terror.

Everything is clear up until that point, and then it gets fuzzy: no more crisp images, just an overwhelming sense of failure, disappointment in myself, a crippling sensation of fear that the mask has fallen, I haven't done as well as everyone thought, I am now exposed.

I hate this dream. It always lingers, always touches a deep nerve. I think it's because it touches on so many fears: the fear of failure, the fear of overlooking something, the fear of judgment, the fear of loss... the fear of somehow losing my very intelligence, my very self.

Why are we tormented by our own minds? I know I'm not the only one. Why must these dreams be recurring? Can we ever get over the fears they represent? If we get rid of these fears in our waking lives, will they also be put to rest in our sleeping hours?

For now, I have plenty of time to ponder these questions as I lay awake at night. I'm sure I'll be sleeping better soon. But for now, I'm hiding my diplomas, so no one can take them. And if I get a postcard from Professor W this week, I just might have a heart attack.**

*It's always Professor W. I don't know why. Likely because he was one of the most intimidating and challenging of my undergraduate professors; he really pushed me to be a better writer and more critical thinker; he's one of only two professors with whom I've stayed in touch post-college; AND, the man knows more about more topics than seems humanly possible. Which is a terrifying, terrifying quality in a person.

** Yes, he really does send me the occasional postcard.

Placeholder

2008-07-14T00:21:00.002-04:00

I'm too in need of bedtime at the moment to write tonight... but there WILL be an installment this week, so check back soon! Sweet dreams...

We're All All Write

2008-07-07T00:42:00.006-04:00

I have a larger circle of writer-friends now than I ever have in the past. It's pretty incredible - frankly, amazing and inspiring - to be surrounded by so many ideas, so much enthusiasm, so many worthy verbal sparring partners and written-project-collaborators.

It can also be a hard to stay on track with any one project when there are so many being tossed around. It can get a little overwhelming. Not just on the group level, but on the individual level. One person's idea will give me another idea, and then someone else has a third that just sounds so much fun... and suddenly we reach the point of the overwhelm. Well, I do, at least. Sometimes I start to feel like the big-eyed girl staring at an all you can eat buffet, clutching my tiny plate like a shield as I head in to battle: everything looks so good! And it's all you can eat! But as my mother frequently reminds me at such buffets "All-you-can-eat is not a personal challenge, Beth."

(The above paragraph, I must confess, at some point stopped being a metaphor and just became an anecdote. I really do eat too much at buffets, and my mom really does remind me -and my Dad! - that buffet eating is not a competitive sport...)

Wait a minute! Look at that parenthetical! Ha! There! You see?! I got sidetracked just writing this blog, on my own...

To return to the topic at hand, I have fantastically creative friends with an overabundance of good ideas and projects waiting-to-be-tackled. An old and cliched question arises: can you have too much of a good thing? In this case - are we creating a sort of reverse-writer's block, where instead of blanking because we have no good ideas, we are stalling because we have too many? It feels sometimes like we get stuck in a traffic jam of our own creation, throwing up writer's roadblocks as we write a paragraph on this project, change channels and crank out an outline for another great project, hit the scan button again and remember this super-duper idea I had when I was twelve that I just never got to --

Yes. I think the traffic jam is (figuratively) real.

However, I don't think the answer is to get out of the car, or shake fists at the other drivers, or shout obscenities to try and get traffic moving again. I think instead we need to install some stoplights. Get off the freeway now and then to refuel when we need a break. Learn to take the back roads when we need to, and learn to share the road. We just need to get traffic under control - red light, green light, left turn, right turn, slow down, speed up, pull over when we get lost. We can learn to use maps. Plan out the journey, but still leave room for some sidetrips and detours. One project, the next, the next - and once again, we're all all write.

(Except for me and my overly metaphoric, punforgivable posts. Thanks for not revoking my writer's card, y'all.)

Why I Need An Island

2008-06-29T22:32:00.007-04:00

I will never be geographically close to everyone nearest and dearest to me. It is impossible. Now, don't bring alternate universes or the afterlife into this conversation - I mean it sincerely and literally: I can't settle in any place on this earth and be within driving distance of all the people I want to be able to drop everything and go make dinner for, shake sense into, or embrace.

I first realized this several years ago. At this very moment, my favorite people are scattered throughout the Midwest, across the Deep South, the West Coast, the East Coast, across multiple oceans, in cities big and small, places far and wide. Not only can I never settle somewhere and be near all of them - but also, it seems that most years, I can't even visit as many of these far-flung family and friends as I would like.

So I have decided: I need an island.

I am not selfish. I know everyone has their own lives, and we can't just all be vacationing together, all the time. I also assume there are probably others out there who need the island I am about to describe, so I am willing to time-share this magical place. But I need it at least once a week, every year, so everyone I want to see can gather together for our annual week-long island vacation.

Island Week will be an oasis in time and space. In this oasis, we can sip our drinks with and beneath umbrellas. We can spend time catching up, relaxing, soaking up the sun and basking in each other's stories.

Preferably, this island will have its own time zone, one that makes days longer, so that no matter how late you sleep in, there is still plenty of day to experience when you wake, and the nights are long enough that you can both stay up until three a.m. discussing big ideas with the phenomenal people around you, and still manage to also get a good night's sleep.

The food on the island will be EXCELLENT; there will be music; there will be naps; and of course, there will be nightly play performances.

There will be no cell phones on the island (note: I did not say no cell RECEPTION - I already have that little piece of paradise's real estate, called My Apartment in Belhaven - I said NO CELL PHONES, because when all of my favorite people are in one place, who on earth will we need to call?).

And ... everyone will be healthy on the island. Even those struggling now with physical, mental and emotional challenges in their current everyday lives, will be granted reprieve for Island Week.

So. I need this island.

Is that too much to ask?

The Pain in Pain Stays Mainly in the Pain

2008-06-22T19:33:00.005-04:00

We hurt.

When someone hurts us, we hurt; when someone hurts someone we love, we hurt; and when we know that we caused hurt to someone else, more often than not, we too feel a deep sense of hurt.
This is part of being a human. It is inescapable, and it is how we learn. It sounds so cliche to say, without bad days we would not be so grateful for the good ones; without loneliness, we would not appreciate love; without pain, we could not identify peace. It feels trite to try to explain this, particularly out loud, to another person, who is battling that darkness. But being cliche, or trite, or even completely Pollyanna-glad-game, does not render a statement false.

Trouble is, when lost in the whirlwind of pain, sometimes it seems that all you can see is all there is. One's senses all heighten - yet all you taste, smell, see, hear, and touch is the misery. But all-encompassing as it may feel, that misery is not the only reality; it is a temporary paralysis, a difficult moment in time, a confinement that may feel like a prison term -- but it is not a life sentence.

So remember, Pandora: when all the hateful and hurtful demons have fled the box, still there, clinging to the bottom... don't overlook the stubborn, clandestine, but ever-eternally-springing light of hope.

Father's Day

2008-06-15T14:31:00.005-04:00

I am one of those people blessed not only with an excellent father of my own, but also with many other excellent dads sprinkled around my world. A dear friend of mine who is a father recently got called in for some serious dad-duty, and in order to provide some entertainment for him and his kids, I sent something special his way. See, my family is really into this little game called "euchre"... my dad's a master, my grandfather and godfather are practically psychotic for it, my whole family comes together around the cards at every holiday, reunion and picnic... so I created a little How to Play sheet. (Full disclosure: parts of these instructions are patchworked in from a few rules-sites, with my own commentary inserted... hopefully no one sues me.)

Now, in honor my amazing dad, all the lovely dads in my family, my excellent-father friend, and every other amazing patriarch out there, here are the Official Bethweek Rules of Euchre.

Euchre!

(Pronounced YOO-KER. Note: all “notes” in parentheses are from Beth)

Euchre is popular

across a wide area of Canada, and in the USA, especially in the North-East and Midwest, and also in the United States Navy. It is played in parts of Britain, New Zealand, Australia, and other places throughout the world. (It is VERY, VERY POPULAR with Beth’s family, and they have lots of silly extra rules/traditions which will be noted in parentheses.)

Players and Object

Euchre is a plain-trick game for four players in fixed partnerships, partners sitting opposite. (This means: four people. Two teams. Don’t sit next to your partner. Why do the games-instructions-writers need to make everything SO COMPLICATED?!?! Beth’s family rule: you must refer to your partner as “Partner” throughout the game. It builds team spirit.)

For each hand, 5 cards are dealt to each player. Object is to win at least three of the five tricks in a given hand - with an extra bonus for winning all five. (When a team wins all five tricks in a hand, Beth’s Family Tradition dictates that it’s okay to gloatingly yell “THAT’S FIVE, BABY!!!! WAY TO GO, PARTNER!!!!!!!”)

Rank of Cards

A pack of 24 cards is used consisting of A K Q J 10 9 in each of the four suits: hearts, diamonds, clubs and spades. The trump suit has 7 cards ranking from highest to lowest as follows:

Right Bower (the Jack of the trump suit)
Left Bower (the other Jack of the same color as the trump suit… ie if hearts are trump, the jack of diamonds is the second highest card for that hand)
Ace
King
Queen
Ten
Nine

The other suits have 6 or 5 cards ranking as normal: A K Q (J) 10 9. The word Bower comes from the German Bauer, which means farmer or peasant and is also a word for Jack. (Huh. I did not know that until I downloaded these instructions. I guess you learn something new every day!)

The Deal

The first dealer is selected at random. The turn to deal then rotates clockwise throughout the game. Five cards are dealt to each player in two rounds. The dealer deals clockwise, giving each player a packet of two or three cards in any order - any player who was dealt two in the first round gets three in the second and vice versa. (Why 2 then 3? Dunno. Discuss.) The dealer then turns the next card face up. This up-card is used as a basis for selecting trump suit. The remaining cards are left face-down and are not used. (This is called “the kitty.” Here, kitty, kitty, kitty…)

Making trump

This process determines the trump suit and which team are the makers - that is the team which undertakes to win three tricks. First each player in turn, beginning with the player to the dealer's left, has the option of accepting up-card's suit as the trump suit or passing. Specifically:

The player to dealer's left may either pass or say "I order it up" (No, no, no. Say “Pick it UP!” Or “Let’s try that one, Partner!” Or “I’m feeling lucky.”)
If the first player passes, the dealer's partner may either pass or order it up as trump suit.
If the first two players pass, the player to dealer's right may either pass or "order up"
If all three other players pass, the dealer may either take up the up-card, saying "I take it up", or pass by saying "over" and turning the up-card face-down.

If either of the dealer's opponents order it up or if dealer decides to take it up, the suit of the up-card becomes trump; the dealer adds the up-card to her hand and discards a card face-down.

If all four players pass, the up-card is turned face-down, and there is a second round in which players have the option to make any suit trump, other than the suit of the up-card. Again the player to dealer's left speaks first and may either pass again or name a suit. If the first player passes the second may name a suit or pass, and so on. If all four players pass a second time the cards are thrown in and the next player deals.

(Sheesh. They make it sound like choosing a trump suit for a hand takes forever. It actually takes under 30 seconds. Unless you’re playing with really indecisive people, like my **RELATIVE'S NAME DELETED TO AVOID BEING KICKED OUT OF THE WILL.**)

Going Alone

When ordering up a trump suit, a player may announce that they are playing alone. The partner of a lone player puts her cards face-down and takes no part in the play. (This is called “a loner.” When you can do this, you are awesome.)

The Play

If all four players are in the game, the play begins with the player to the dealer's left leading to the first trick. If one player is playing alone, the person to that player's left leads first. If two players are playing alone, the defender leads.

Any card may be led, and each player in clockwise order must follow suit by playing a card of the same suit as the card led if possible. A player who cannot follow suit may play any card. (But don’t throw away a good one like an Ace or King! That would be shooting yourself in the foot!!!!)

Remember that, for purposes of following suit, Left Bower is considered to belong to the trump suit and not to any other suit. The trick is won by whoever played the highest card of the suit led, unless a trump was played in which case the highest trump wins. The winner of each trick leads to the next one.

Scoring

If all four players are playing then the scores are as follows:

If the makers win 3 or 4 tricks they score one point.
If the makers win all 5 tricks they score two points.
If the makers take fewer than three tricks they are said to be euchred, and the defenders score two points. (If this happens, the team that stole the hand gets to yell “EUCHRE!” and do an obnoxious dance. But if it’s too obnoxious, karma will later bite you in the butt. All these traditions, Beth’s family holds dear.)

If a member of the makers' team is playing alone and wins all 5 tricks, the team scores 4 points instead of 2 - otherwise the scores are as above. If a member of the defenders' team is playing alone and succeeds in winning at least 3 tricks, thereby euchring the makers, the defenders score 4 points instead of 2 - otherwise the scores are as above. The game is normally played to 10 points - that is, the team who first reach 10 or more points over several deals win the game. It is usual for each team to keep score using a spare 4 and 6 from the pack (as these cards are not used in the game). The cards are arranged on the table so that the number of pips showing shows the team's current score. (Later, I will teach you all the stupid songs we sing about various suits, such as “Diamonds are a Girl’s Best Friend”, etc. Have fun!)

Bottle Tree: A Fairy Tale

2008-06-08T22:59:00.008-04:00

A bottle tree.

If you have lived in the South, you have seen them; they are not built for the North, and are found there only rarely. Too delicate. They cannot flourish where cold shatters. The climate there is not right - they are a Southern species.

Colored-glass containers, not recycled, trashed, nor broken, but instead placed carefully on wire branches, becoming a part of something new. Bottle trees are striking, but not beautiful; awkward and unnatural, but somehow arresting.

What lives in a bottle tree?

What secrets might these containers contain?

Who emptied them?

What stories now fill them?

On top of multiple other projects, I keep thinking of a legend, a story that will fall from these glass and metal branches... Bottle Tree: A Fairy Tale.

BethWEEK

2008-06-01T14:12:00.003-04:00

As was recently teasingly pointed out to me, this blog has become more Bethmonth than Bethweek. Well, I'm going to see if I can't do something about that.

I actually do have "saved to draft" posts from the past few weeks that I just never finished or published. This is a frequent writer's ailment of mine - a combination of procrastination and self-criticism that sometimes leads me to pause and shelve something that's not-quite-polished rather than just put it out there. And while that's fine for bigger writing projects (to a point), the whole purpose of this blog was supposed to be that it would force me to write weekly, come up with some commentary to post on a regular basis. It would require me to write no matter how blocked I was, how busy, how convinced that I'm a terrible writer who will never be able to finish the current project.

The good news is, I've been writing. A lot. Not here at Bethweek, obviously - but I've been a writing machine elsewhere. So maybe I don't need this blog. But before euthanizing Bethweek, I'm going to make one more attempt to utilize this self-imposed writing commitment. Not monthly, but weekly. I'll momentarily post the last few weeks' posts, which should retroactively show up as links, with their original composition date, making it look as though I was a solid blog-poster for the month of May. If only it were so easy to retroactively smoothe over time itself, and not just a web chart of the time...

(... of course, sometimes I think we do wind up glossing over the past, and making it look less messy than it really was. A topic for a future post, perhaps? See - there's always something to write about. So whether it's mundane or fantastic, global or personal, I'm going to make the attempt to put some weekly words up here.)

Consistent posting - otherwise, the blog gets it.

They Can Also Be Beautiful

2008-05-28T10:48:00.008-04:00

This past weekend, one of my best friends from college married a man who complements and strengthens her, who she laughs with and cooks with and lovingly encourages. It was a beautiful and moving weekend. I was honored to be a bridesmaid, and was also asked to "MC" a night of toasting the bride-and-groom-to-be (poor groom... I quickly realized that things like this wind up being more along the lines of "toasting the bride, roasting the groom"), and to give the final toast. I share now my toast for the happy couple:

"All beginnings are difficult."

My first semester of college, I took a freshman seminar called Bad Girls. (Seriously.) I was so excited for this first class, feeling a little bit rebellious just for having signed up: I'm taking a class called Bad Girls! That's so... bad!! On the first day, Professor Harder (seriously) walked in to the room and posed a question to the class: "How many of you consider yourselves 'good girls'?" Two hands flew up - mine, and this redheaded girl's (S). We looked at each other. We were seventeen. We were terrified. It would still take us a little time to become best friends.

All beginnings are difficult.

Four years later, S and I took a little road trip to Mississippi, as we both transitioned from college to the real world. She left me there after helping me settle in. She lived in Boston then, and dutifully took my phone calls when I would cry about my lonely first few months in Jackson. "It's okay," S would assure me, "My mom's family is from the South, and they're fine."

All beginnings are difficult.

I was already a solidly born-again-Southerner when I first heard from S about J. "So there's this guy," she said. "And he's smart, and funny, and can cook, and I think he might be The One. But..." (And I hope she doesn't kill me for sharing this.) "... not yet. He's not quite 'ripe' yet."

J, don't feel bad: All beginnings are difficult.

Left out in the sun long enough, most things ripen. Living together in more than one warm place, S and J's relationship bloomed, and now here we are, celebrating their marriage - and it occurred to me: a wedding marks a new beginning, but it's not the difficult part. A wedding is a joyful time, when, surrounded by loved ones, bride and groom have an easy beginning to a journey that will not always be easy. But walking hand in hand, I know that S and J... the genuinely "good girl," and her ever-ripening man... will find each new beginning a little less difficult.

the numbers game

2008-05-19T19:57:00.003-04:00

oops.

i somehow deleted this post and now have no idea what the title "the numbers game" was even in refence to here...

oops.

Just a ???? Kind of Girl

2008-05-12T10:29:00.005-04:00

I recently visited New England, to see some dear friends and their newest family member. The winding old horse-buggy roads, the salty smell and gray-tinged skies accompanying brisk winds: I haven't spent a spring in Massachusetts in more than five years.

It's funny how transient we all are in this era. I flew to Boston to visit friends who were once my closest companions here in Jackson. Now, for the past almost-two years, they've been in Massachusetts... where, once upon a time, I lived.

Early one morning, while new baby and weary new parents, grandparents, and big sister slept, I woke up. Alert and alone, I decided to go for a walk around the picturesque village. I went for a brief jog, then got an iced coffee from Dunkin' Donuts (America might not run on Dunkin', but New England sure does), and shifted from my quick pace to a leisurely stroll, looking in the closed window-shops, winding my way through several little streets with old Colonial housing. Marblehead has homes and cemetaries dating back to the 1700s; American history rests there.

As I took in the homes and smells and atmosphere, I began imagining what my life might look like if I had stayed in New England. What if, instead of taking the job in Mississippi, I had accepted the teaching position I was offered in Massachusetts? I envisioned myself as a Boston girl, more accustomed to cold winters, nestled in a bigger city, a small enclave within the big city, perhaps. Dinners in Little Italy, more liberals than conservatives, fewer fried foods and more organic farms. I began to see myself as a New Englander. (Well, in the spring-summer-fall, at least.)

Then my mind drifted to my Midwestern roots, great lakes and big forests and ramshackle farms, fresh apple cider and hot donuts and friendly people. What if I had stayed in Michigan or Illinois? Could I be a Midwestern girl?

Then, as it has so often lately, my mind changed paths again, and took me to the places that have filled my radio and heart: Myanmar. China. Iraq. Afghanistan. Darfur. What if instead of my idle musings about being a Northern or Southern girl, I had been born a Sudanese girl? I have the luxury to dream of what region I could inhabit in this country... this country that I feel required and empowerd to criticize when necessary, but that I also deeply love. I know that I am blessed to have been born here - it was luck of the draw on my part, right? It wasn't me, it was my grandparents on my father's side, and more great-greats on my mother's side (with the Creek native strain excepted) who made difficult journeys to get here. I just started out here, and have had the privilege to wander and absorb.

I'm no better than someone born in a more hard-hit or politically-oppressed country. I'm no more deserving. Is it selfish to feel grateful for my privilege? Or silly to be feeling guilty, now, as I wander the little town?

The wind got a little colder, and I pulled my jacket a little tighter around myself. Selfish, guilty, okay, but don't dwell in those unproductive places, silly. It's a beautiful morning. I am who I am, where I am, when I am. Wherever I'm living, I can try to make the world a little better - and from where I am, I can do what I can to make it better elsewhere, too.

For now, I'm a Southern girl. I feel comfortable in this here, in this who, in this when. But who really knows where any of us will end up? I let myself back into my friends' cozy home, and waited for the beautiful family there to wake up so we could make some breakfast. While I waited, I started writing.

Storms, Again

2008-05-05T10:56:00.002-04:00

Myanmar... too numbed by this to write about it yet.

Notes From a Coffee Shop

2008-04-27T22:22:00.005-04:00

So I just posted two past weeks' blog posts that I started but didn't finish. Don't get confused, it's not that you missed them... they were waiting in the wings, unpublished, unfinished.

"Unfinished" is too much of a theme in my writing life lately. Anything seems easier than finishing the writing task at hand. Even now, as I sit here in the coffeeshop, committed to a writing date with myself, I'm looking for outs. Maybe someone wants to watch a movie? Maybe I should check Facebook to see what new events I need to add to my calendar? People watching...! How about people watching? That should count towards writing time - it's character material fodder, right?

So much easier to procrastinate than to write! When I am sans deadline, I suffer from a miserable combination: tons of inspiration and ideas + zero motivation. When I have a deadline, I often feel a bit blocked idea-wise, but at least the fire is lit and I can get moving. I need to find the shift, wherein I can write when I have ideas about what to write... rather than having brilliant ideas while driving through the middle of nowhere and having thoughts like "man, Sofia looked funny when she was shaved" fill my head while I waste my hours of writing time at the coffeeshop.

Perhaps tonight's next activity will be to do what I keep intending to do, but keep forgetting to do: put together a timeline of submission deadlines, and set up a calendar of monthly external deadlines for myself. So, dear readers (whoever has not yet given up on this poor, abandoned blog), do help keep me on task. Ask me if I got the list done. Ask what the next goal is. I need to find a rhythm before the next surge of work/travel/outside obligations makes it even more difficult for me to stay focused.

Sending good writing and excellent life-in-general vibes out to everyone...

And My Hair Will Shine Like the Sea-ee-ee... Ee-ee-ee-ee!

2008-04-14T12:54:00.005-04:00

I don't care what my teacher says/I'm gonna be a supermodel/And everyone is gonna dress like me/Wait and see/When I'm a supermodel/And my hair will shine like the sea/And everyone will wanna look just like me...

Cause I'm young, and I'm hip and so beautiful/I'm gonna be a supermodel/'Cause I'm young, and I'm hip and so beautiful/I'm gonna be a supermodel!

I wish that I was like Tori Spelling/With a car like hers, and a dad like hers/And I will show them how, how it was done/And that'd be fun; that'd be fun/And I'd write my school report/On "Why I love my jeans; why I love my jeans"/And oh! On my locker door/It's the coolest thing that you've ever seen...

'Cause I'm young, and I'm hip and so beautiful/I'm gonna be a supermodel/'Cause I'm young, and I'm hip and so beautiful/I'm gonna be a supermodel!

I didn't eat yesterdayAnd I'm not going to eat today/And I'm not going to eat tomorrow/'Cause I'm going to be a supermodel/'Cause I'm young, and I'm hip and so beautiful/I'm gonna be a supermodel...

--"I Wanna Be a Supermodel" (Letters to Cleo)

Somehow I got drafted into being in a runway fashion show this week. This is not a joke. (Okay, it's actually one heck of a joke, but mostly because it actually did happen.)

There are many stories I could share, but I'm behind on blogging and short on time. I will share the best of the worst:

Most of the models in the show were actual models/model material: tall, bronze-skinned Amazonian blondes. The night before the runway show, I had to attend a rehearsal for said show. During the run-through of a section in which I was not participating, I was seated beside a mother of one of the models. She pointed out her willowy golden daughter to me. Then, another girl strolled down the catwalk - a long-necked girl with cinnamon-hued hair and porcelain skin.

"Oh, look at that poor baby," she whispered to me, scandalized. "She is so pale! I've tried talking to her mama, but she still won't take her to the tanning salon. Can you believe that?"

I believe the expression on my face could only be described as "What the SWEARWORD is wrong with you? How the SWEARWORD is that okay for a parent to say?"

Overall, it was an interesting experience, and I'm glad I could help the person who was coordinating this show. But, just in case I ever had any doubts: I am so not model material.

Storms

2008-04-07T14:23:00.003-04:00

Huge storms ripped through Jackson this Friday. I was unaware of the magnitude of the storms until I headed home at day's end, with down power lines, trees, and traffic lights stretching my fifteen minute commute into forty-five minutes. I knew there had been a storm, was even caught out in some intense hail during lunch, but the worst of it missed my office - and also missed my home. Incredibly, several of the tornadoes touched down smack in between my home and office.

The weather, so beyond our control, seemed a powerful and unforgiving metaphor for life in general. So often, we are wrapped in ourselves, and not fully aware of those around us. I didn't know the storm was as bad as it was because I was not one directly impacted - but the storm was all around, and many, many were impacted. Some of my friends are currently unable to live in their apartments; others have no power. My gym is partially de-roofed. The Storage Max building I rarely notice was partially destroyed- cement and brick ripped from its side.

The storm doesn't always touch down right above your head. But there's usually someone being impacted by some sort of storm, somewhere. Hold a good thought that those without roofs and without power are soon fully restored... and maybe this week can be a reminder that even when we're doing just fine ourselves, someone is always under the thunder.

Sick and Tired of Being Sick and Tired

2008-04-01T00:03:00.007-04:00

I suck at being sick. For this, I blame my mother.

(Sorry, mom. But considering all the jokes about therapists helping you realize that most things can be blamed on your mother, if "rendering me unable to cope normally with being sick" is the worst I can pin on you, that's not so bad, right?)

When I was growing up, most of my friends' mothers pampered them when they were sick, keeping them home from school, letting them watch movies and cartoons to their heart's delight, bringing them hot soup and cooling drinks.

Not so at my house.

First of all, for most of my childhood years, we didn't "go-to-school," per se, so sick days meant no change of scenery. (This is also why "snow days" held no joy for me; they meant I was simply stuck. at. school.) Second of all, illness is something for which my mother has very little patience. This was the typical response when one of us fell ill:

Day one: (with loving, uber-maternal sympathy) "My baby's sick? Oh, honey. Stay in bed, sleep in, get better, I'll make you some soup. By the way, you can still only watch PBS."

Day two (or sometimes just later in the day on day one): "You're still sick?" (Pulls the blanket off whimpering child) "Get over it, we're volunteering at the library today, go get your little brothers ready and don't you dare sneeze on them."

My mother's basic philosophy was that you shouldn't coddle a sick child, because to encourage such behavior might reinforce that behavior, and make them want to do it more often. If you think about it for a few minutes, it almost starts to make sense...

...and it is most certainly why I suck at being sick to this day. I mean, all of us are pretty cranky about being sick, right? But my stubborn refusal to be sick, and my borderline insane expectation that all illnesses should last 24 hours or less, is not exactly normal. This is my solo sick routine these days:

Days one-three (or longer): "I'm not sick."
Day four: "Body... shutting... down... can't... get out of... bed..."
Day five: "I HATE MY (SNEEZE, COUGH) BODY WHAT DO (COUGH) YOU MEAN I (SNEEZE) HAVE A FEVER (COUGH) I AM NOT (SNEEZE) STILL (COUGH, SNEEZE) SICK!!"

How am I feeling now? Better, thanks. :)

(Cough... sneeze...)

....

Seniorita Muerta

2008-03-24T21:30:00.011-04:00

Just over two years ago, thanks in no small part to the generosity of a dear friend, herein referred to as "Fantastic," I spent a week in Costa Rica. Today, I found the pocket-size notebook I took with me on that trip. I never did anything with the notes, observations, questions and lyrics scrawled as Fantastic and I traversed Central America.... other than a few notes I jotted down for a play called "Remembering Audrey"... which would later become "Unshelved." So now, with the bonus of a few of the photos from that lovely trip, here are just a few excerpts from my Costa Rica journal.

Our first few days are here at Renconcito lodge. There are animals everywhere - birds and livestock, but mostly frogs and dogs, including one tiny little puppy that I intend to kidnap and take home with us. (Sofia will love him!) There is also an adorable little girl who sits in the dining area, playing, drawing, sucking on her fingers, and I fear that Fantastic has plans to kidnap her and take her home with us, too....

....Our guide has taken to calling me Seniorita Muerta due to my Michigan-in-December alabaster skin. I do not realize how pale I am until I see a picture Fantastic snaps, my hand alongside our tico guide's... I had to agree: Seniorita Muerta's, well... kind of accurate. It's already my second Costa Rican nickname: "Beth" was difficult for our first guide to pronounce, so Fantastic told him my middle name, and his face lit up: "Like Dora El Explorador!" Dora the Explorer. Yep, that's me. So these are my current choices, moniker-wise: Dora or Death!

....Fantastic and I went zip-lining through the rain forest, which was incredible; soaring above the trees, exhilarated and terrified. Slightly less intense was our trek through the rain forest on horseback. Well - less intense for me and my calm, even-tempered steed. Fantastic's caballo loco was another story. We stopped at one point to walk on foot through the forest as monkeys danced above us; an older man our guide knew was there and began singing us a song about the monkeys - which, after struggling through some translations, we fell apart laughing at the lyrics, which centered around the golden rains the monkeys bring....

.....At the bus station in Liberia, no one seems to speak English. In our broken Spanish, we managed to purchase two tickets to Tamarindo. The tickets clearly said Destino: Tamarindo. Having crossed this hurdle, our next test was to determine which bus line was for the Tamarindo-bound bus. There are no numbers on the tickets, no numbers on the buses.

Like mosquitoes buzzing in sweaty ears, Fantastic and I flitted through the dusty terminal, asking people in the various lines: "Tamarindo? Tamarindo?" They would slap us away, irritated: "No, no."

Finally, someone responded "Si, si, Tamarindo." We joined her in line and stood sweating with the ticos, awaiting our bus. Sweat poured down our backs as we waited patiently in line. Finally, the bus arrived. Upon its arrival, however, we were dismayed to witness the disappearance of the line. People in line behind us shoved us out of the way in a mad dash to secure a seat. It took us a minute to catch on, but Fantastic and I recovered and swiftly elbowed a few smaller, weaker people out of the way and fought our way into seats...

... sort of. I couldn't take notes at the time, but we ultimately had to transfer from bus to truck... and we didn't exactly have seats. At one point I was half-sitting in a truck driver's lap, half-leaning on the exposed dashboard (no front window), and briefly even holding a chicken for another passenger. Thus on that trip, I was struggling with each bump in the road to not a)drop the chicken, b)fall off the bus, or c)become overly friendly with the bus driver... Fantastic, who had more of a seat than I did, was mostly struggling not to wet herself laughing at me...

Not-From-My Journal-Postscript: we finally arrived in Tamarindo, where hikes along the beach, seeing giant tortoises lay eggs, eating lovely fresh seafood, having Fantastic conversations (literally), snorkeling, and a multi-lingual parrot led to many great stories, for another day. But for now I leave you with the euphemism born in Tamarindo - a euphemism which, in my opinion, kicks serious nachos to this day:

Will He Barack My World?

2008-03-10T10:05:00.004-04:00

Today, Senator Barack Obama is speaking at Jackson State University. A small group of us plan to head on down there and hear him speak. I hope he will capture my imagination and excited me about the possibility of hope in politics. If you believe his hype, he breathes new hope into the country on every exhale and every inhale...

But which is it really - hype, or hope?

A Prayer for a Friend

2008-03-03T20:28:00.005-05:00

Today, a good family friend -- one who has been dealt more than his fair share of poor-health cards in the past few years -- is undergoing another surgery. His family is with him. He put up a pre-surgery blog post about enjoying a restaurant tour of his city before it was time for fasting and preparing. His physical heart has had some trouble, but he has a hell of a strong heart otherwise.

This post is a prayer for him:

May your surgery go smoothly.

May your recovery be swift and complete.

May you feel the comfort and love of your family and friends, those in the hospital beside you and those sending prayers and wishes cross-city, cross-state, cross-country, and cross-international-borders.

May your body find strength, may your mind find insight, may your spirit find what it needs.

May you write about it all, and make the rest of us laugh, cry, shake our fists, and ultimately, celebrate and feel grateful along with you.

Love Letter To a Little Man

2008-02-25T14:02:00.008-05:00

.....

Dear Oscar,

I don't really know where to begin. I've never been good about things like this - so I'm just going to jump right in and see what happens. Okay? Here goes.

I have a crush on you, sweetie pie.

I've had a crush on you for years, actually. I can't pinpoint the day you first caught my eye, but you still capture my imagination.

I've followed your career pretty closely. You're kind of a cad (how many past winners have kissed and caressed you in front of the world? But I forgive you). You've made some poor choices with past loves (James Cameron as Best Director? The man is insane, Oscar; I expect better from you). But you have also had some shining moments, and the way you help others to reach such levels of joy is truly admirable.

And that year you were stolen?! I was outraged. Those horrible thieves! Don't they know you must be wooed and won, not snatched up like some common household tchotchke?!

So there you have it. Now you know. It's okay if you want to play hard to get. Frankly, I know how that game works. I'm not too worried. I'll do the work on my end. I'll arrange for us to meet... and when that night comes...

Let me take you home, baby. I promise I'll be good to you. I'll hold your hand in front of my friends. I'll always remember the night we met. And I can't wait to introduce you to my parents.

So how 'bout it?
xxoo
Beth

Ain't No Party Like a Political Party...

2008-02-18T10:05:00.010-05:00

It's hard to abide by the old adage: never talk religion or politics in mixed company... particularly when you call the "bible belt" home. Religion and politics are the border around so many snapshots of life down here. The "mixed company" part is tough, too - because often the assumption is, the company's not so mixed. More often than political debate, I hear people toss off a political statement with the clear ease of someone who assumes that everyone around him agrees with everything he says.

An assumption of homogeneity in political thought is certainly not unique to the South. Just as the generalization is often made that all Southerners are knee-jerk red-state conservatives, the generalization is often made that everyone in Berkeley, Ann Arbor, Boston are knee-jerk blue-state liberals. Those generalizations are a large part of the problem with any given political conversation.

I offer the following harsh, stereotypical definitions often associated with the two main American political labels:

Conservative (typically a.k.a. Republican). Someone who is small-minded, insular, judgmental, and utterly convinced that their way is right and everyone else's way is wrong.
Liberal (typically a.k.a. Democrat). Someone who is loosey-goosey, ethics, morals, and values-free, generally all-too-willing to quickly relinquish revered traditions and societal institutions.

These definitions are really, really helpful when it comes to crafting SNL skits, cracking one-line jokes, and making movies like Team America. They sure aren't helpful in getting people to connect, find common ground, and have more productive conversations about our shared society.

Last week, two of my friends posted Facebook blogs about their political views. (One of them, BK2, also shared his on a blogspot blog.) One posted from the point of view of a "conservative," the other a "liberal." The refreshing thing about both posts was that the authors both wrestled with their definitions, mentioned respectfully that not all their friends necessarily agreed with their views, and sought to articulate their individual positions rather than a strict party line.

I would argue that both of these friends defy the negative stereotypes of the groups they represent. (I should mention that they, too, are friends with one another.) I applaud this defiance. I generally tend to avoid labeling myself politically, but based on many of my opinions, I'm more often slapped with the "liberal label." However, as I noted in the last politically-themed blog I wrote, while in Ann arbor, rather than the political l-word, I had the political c-word tossed my way a few times. What does this show? The divisiveness and arbitrariness of these labels. I feel pretty confident that many of my conservative friends, who might call me a liberal, would likely in the same breath vouch for my ethics and clarify on my behalf that I'm far from being morally "loosey-goosey."

I get nervous when political conversations are less about reflection and more about rhetoric. I get inspired when friends on two sides of the fence can eloquently share their stances. I feel hope when I think that good, thoughtful people, across lines, can agree on the importance of mutual respect and working together to better our country and our world.

I still don't like the labels we currently have available to us. Thus at the risk of sounding cheesy, I declare here and now that my political affiliation is "Thinker." That's my stance. Consider yourself invited to the party.

On Regret (A Haiku)

2008-02-11T10:26:00.002-05:00

Regret: feeling bad
about things you cannot change?
That's not productive.

Don't Shave A Husky!

2008-02-05T17:35:00.000-05:00

Author Karen Pryor wrote a book several years back called "Don't Shoot the Dog!: The New Art of Teaching and Training." She grabbed your attention with that first admonition - don't shoot the dog! - and it alluded to her deeper philosophical point: all too often, when things go wrong, we blame the dog (wait... didn't quite mean to make that joke...) rather than the trainer, the training methods, the process that yielded the product.

Pryor argues that rather than shooting the dog (or taking it to the pound, but that made for a more cumbersome title), we should look at changing our own methods. Really, it's sort of an animal take on Ghandi: be the change you wish to see in the world. All right, that's kind of a stretch, but she did a good job driving home the point that training impacts the trained, and re-examination of our own methods when interacting with pets, children, co-workers, spouses, and so on, is generally more productive than just writing off said pets, children, etcetera.

So what do I mean by "don't shave a husky"?

Do I mean it as a metaphor for not just taking the easy way out? Because it is true that with the suddenly skyrocketed temperatures down here earlier this week, my husky Sofia started shedding like nobody's business, and it was making me crazy. So I took her to a groomer and asked them to give her a trim, so that maybe my house could be a little less hairy. Rather than vacuuming three times daily, lint-rolling my clothes constantly, and investing all that time in Sofia Hair Management, I took the easy route and let the groomers attack the root of the hair problem. So perhaps we can learn from this:

"Don't Shave A Husky!" It's the easy way out! If you've committed to a fluffy-haired pet, commit to its impact on your life!

"Don't Shave A Husky!!" Altering the natural, beautiful state of something just because it's inconvenient is a selfish, materialistic move. Are clean sofas really worth messing with another creature's appearance? Let's make the case for natural beauty!

"Don't Shave a Husky!!!" SEE! I could have a larger, transcendent point, just like Karen Pryor! Lessons from animals also apply to people! Don't take the path of least resistance!! The easy road leads to nowhere!!! Natural is beautiful!!!!

Well, now. Maybe there's something to all that.

But mostly, by "don't shave a husky,"I just mean that my dog got shaved today, and she looks really, really stupid.

*See how she won't even turn to face the camera! She is too ashamed! But imagine her still-fluffy head matched with a shaved little body. The tail should give you some idea. Look at the tail - my heavens, THE TAIL!

Eudora Wins! I Get a Mention :)

2008-01-27T14:41:00.000-05:00

I've been doing a lot of writing lately, though not much blogging. A few days ago, I got a text message from a friend saying "Congrats on good showing with the writing!" I wasn't sure what the message meant. Turns out, quite to my surprise, I got enough votes in the Jackson Free Press "Best Of" competition to warrant a mention as one of Jackson's best writers.

Who took first place? Pulitzer Prize winner Eudora Welty. I think I'm okay with that. However, one indignant friend of mine said I should have "campaigned" and made more people vote for me in order to oust Eudora, who, as he pointed out, is dead. I still think I'm flattered, and totally okay with her winning.

This year. ;)

Best Jackson Writer: Eudora Welty
by Greg Williamson

Winner of two Guggenheim Fellowships and a Pulitzer Prize in fiction, Eudora Welty lived in Jackson almost all of her 92 years before her death in 2001. She still remains so much a part of the community. I love her dialogue, which conveys all the complexity of the human condition, and when read aloud makes you feel as rooted to the soil of the South as an old magnolia tree.

Second: Donna Ladd / Third: (tie) Orley Hood and Todd Stauffer / Good Showing: (tie) Lori Gregory and Beth Kander.

http://www.jacksonfreepress.com/comments.php?id=16056_0_9_0_C

I Have Not Disappeared

2008-01-21T18:19:00.000-05:00

However, the little time that I'm generally able to carve out for blog-writing was mercilessly stolen from me this week. Hoping to re-locate that pocket of time in the next few days - by next Monday at the latest. Bethweek will be back... don't worry, Mom & Dad! ;)

Happy MLK day, y'all!

Going Over Sees

2008-01-06T16:22:00.000-05:00

I recently rediscovered a long forgotten pair of crazy pink sunglasses. Unpacking some box of excess toiletries and bobby-pins and loofahs, I spotted them. The tricky shades!

I bought them in Boston, in 1999. It's amazing that they are still intact; I think I paid five dollars for them at a kiosk outside of Faneuil Hall. They have these vibrant, gigantic magenta lenses. They are literally rose-colored glasses: when you put them on, the world is suddenly awash in shades of pink.

When first you don the glasses, the pink is shocking - overwhelming and disorienting. Gradually, though, your eyes adjust. Well, not your eyes, actually: your mind. Your mind adjusts, and within just a few minutes' time, the world looks completely normal. You have absorbed and accepted the world you see. You have assimilated. You are comfortable and perfectly content with the view. Everything seems to be just as it should be.

Then, if you remove the sunglasses -- suddenly, BLUE!

Penetrating, headache-inducing blue. The sky is sapphire, the trees' leaves cerulean and trunks deep navy. It can literally make you lightheaded, because suddenly stripped of your pink lenses, all the blue of the world is too persistent. It's loud and overpowering, and you no longer feel a part of it. It's not how you remembered it.

A few minutes pass, though, and the world adjusts and normalizes. Well, not the world, actually: your mind. Green returns to green, blue becomes less assertive, pink surfaces here and there in a flower bed or someone's lipstick. Your eyes are finally free to take a more normalized picture of the world around you, report back more accurate information.

Isn't it funny, how after a little while, your perspective can change to accept an altered or incomplete picture? And then, when suddenly thrust out of the reality you came to accept and expect, your perspective is still skewed, now in another direction.

Isn't it funny, how when you finally remove the rose-colored glasses, you can't get back to a clear view until you spend a little time sifting through the darker blues that were always there, and now demand your attention before you can move on into the full Technicolor world just teasing your peripheral vision?

Funnier still that one tough little pair of cheap pink sunglasses can be a reminder of the importance of context, time, and the incredible capacity we have to adjust... squinting a bit, perhaps, as we learn to see things differently...

Should New Acquaintance

2007-12-31T12:21:00.000-05:00

Due to an impromptu road trip, I have little time to write the year-end retrospective blog I intended to put together to close the 2007 year. However, the last few days of this waning year have brought new sights, new ideas, new friends... and hopefully this is just a bit of pre-game spillover from the hopeful, brighter year that 2008 is destined to be. Wishes to all for a safe and happy holiday, and a wonderful new year ahead.

In Memory of Benazir Bhutto

2007-12-27T17:44:00.001-05:00

A dark day for agents of change around the world. May former Prime Minister Bhutto's legacy be long remembered, and may peace and not violence follow in the wake of her tragic death. Her many supporters killed not only today, but also since her return to her country, should also be remembered. There is no political conversation when murder silences the voices of protest. Terrorists, regimes and politicians willing to kill their opposition, and their own citizens and countrymen? Shocking, but not surprising. The scariest thread of this news story is how unsurprising Bhutto's assassination seems to be. Thank you for your courage, Prime Minister Bhutto. May this loss to the world community not be in vain.

"What?" Doesn't Kill You.

2007-12-18T10:42:00.000-05:00

"Question Authority."

That's the quote that was emblazoned in big white letters on the matching red T-shirts my parents bought for the five of us that made up the Kander family in the mid-1980's. Mom, Dad, Jake, Adam and I wore those t-shirts with pride. We even had a picture taken of the five of us, standing in the gravel driveway behind the green-roofed white duplex on Main Street in Brighton, grinning ear to ear, red and white and questioning all over.

(Note: wearing matching shirts is okay when the kids are all under eight and the shirt carries a bold message of independent thinking, which counteracts the whole lookalike/matching-thing. Also, a family headed by alterna-parents might have something to do with making it work...)

Anyway. My brothers and I probably didn't really know what the quote meant at the time. Frankly, speaking as someone who's done a lot of work with kids... a six-year-old showing up donning such a shirt might make me a little nervous. Informed or not about the nuance of our apparel, all three of us knew it had something to do with questions, and we loved questions.

Why is the sky blue? (It's NOT?!?! What color is it REALLY? Why do our eyes trick us?)
Why are there different countries?
Why don't we live in a different country?
Do all things taste the same to all people, or is that why some people like some foods and some people hate those same foods? Does the FOOD taste different, or do WE just like different tastes?

Questions are important. We knew that as kids. Sure, somewhere along the way, questions went from safe to risky. The answers we got from other people were often important to us, and entirely contingent on them.

Do you like me?
Will I succeed?
Why isn't she here anymore?
What does he really mean by that?

Questions can be scary. But the questions unasked, the authority unquestioned, the "facts" unchecked are far more dangerous. Yet looking around, the unasked "why"s and unshared "what"s fill silent football fields all around us.

Why the fear of questions?

I think some people fear questions because they feel that not already having an answer is some sign of weakness -- and the risk of not getting an answer once a question is posed seems terrifying. But is blind acceptance less terrifying? Is it more comforting to have an answer that you accept without really owning, than to do a little probing and reach a more informed conclusion... or avoid a conclusion at all, and keep your mind a little more open?

Just a little reminder: "What?" doesn't kill you... and "Why?" might even make you stronger.

Entrances and Exits

2007-12-03T15:22:00.000-05:00

I was fascinated when I heard of a diptych* of plays written by Alan Ayckbourn, entitled "House" and "Garden." The two plays are designed to run simultaneously, on adjacent stages. After exiting a scene in House, actors have only a few moments before their entrance into a scene in Garden. (If nothing else, it's a great marketing ploy - intrigued audience members will need to shell out money for two tickets to see both shows and learn what happened when the character left one play and joined the other!)

The idea really captures the imagination. (Sadly, most reviews of the work can be summarized as "good idea, weakly written"...) As an actor, it sounds like a tremendous amount of work: scurrying from one set to the other, remembering lines, blocking and a set for two different shows. Trying to keep everything straight must be a daunting challenge.

Then it occurred to me that, in fact, constant exits, entrances, and set changes are actually a rather true to life sort of experience... a very pronounced one for some of us at the moment. Costume and even role changes aren't unheard of, even when the same character is maintained in real life.

Performances of a show are often referred to as the "run." "Run" is also an accurate description of my current schedule. Forget House and Garden -- I am currently appearing in House, One Play, Another Play, Office, Additional Work, Volunteer Gigs, Classes, and a small, under-funded little improv show called Social Life. (Unfortunately, that leaves time for few performances in Blogging, so the script has been cut significantly this week.)

Take that, Alan Ayckbourn - and run with it!

* I am not ashamed to admit that I had to look up the word diptych. The basic meaning is "two things hinged together." You can get lengthier definitions at dictionary.com's entry, or Wikipedia's entry, or in your thesaurus of choice.

The Top 25 Most Dangerous Cities

2007-11-26T15:01:00.001-05:00

This past week, a study was released about the most dangerous American cities.“City Crime Rankings: Crime in Metropolitan America,”published by Washington-based CQ Press, analyzes FBI crime statistics released Sept. 24. They focus only on cities with at least 75,000
residents. The danger score uses zero as the national average. Below are the top 25 most dangerous cities, according to the study:

MOST DANGEROUS 25:
1. Detroit, 407.2
2. St. Louis, 406.2
3. Flint, Mich., 381.0
4. Oakland, Calif., 338.9
5. Camden, N.J., 323.8
6. Birmingham, Ala., 268.8
7. North Charleston, S.C., 254.3
8. Memphis, 245.6
9. Richmond, Calif., 245.1
10. Cleveland, 244.4
11. Orlando, Fla., 237.4
12. Baltimore, 236.7
13. Little Rock, 233.8
14. Compton, Calif., 223.6
15. Youngstown , 222.0
16. Cincinnati, 218.3
17. Gary, Ind., 214.0
18. Kansas City, Mo., 203.4
19. Dayton, 201.5
20. Newark, N.J., 197.3
21. Philadelphia, 192.9
22. Atlanta, 189.9
23. Jackson, Miss., 188.8
24. Buffalo, 187.8
25. Kansas City , 187.6

You may note that cities #1 and #3 are both in Michigan. Blogger and Flint surviver Meg wrote an amusing little Cliff notes on how not to die in Flint. Dramamama also noted that her two cities, Detroit and Flint are two of the top three places where you're most likely to be a victim of a violent crime- and they're also places she basically visits everyday. Amazingly, she's still alive too. I am happy to report that I miraculously survived a childhood with many years spent frequenting both Detroit and Flint. I've also spent many a night in some of the other Most Dangerous Cities, such as Memphis, Birmingham, Atlanta, Baltimore...

My current hometown, Jackson, Mississippi is now ranked the 23rd most dangerous city in America. Having survived the crack dens and drive-bys of two MUCH more dangerous cities, I feel imbued with the authority to nod sagely and affirm that we're actually quite safe here. Do not worry, fellow Jacksonians! We'll make it!!

What's interesting is to track and see how the numbers have changed over time, and then to try to play a bit with cause and correlation. To wit: in 2004, Jackson was ranked #16... significantly more dangerous than the 23 where we fell this year... but then, in the year 2006 (representing data from 2005) Jackson was out of the top 25 completely - in fact, we were #42. Now, based on the past year's crime levels, we're back in the top 25. The Insurance Journal notes the skyrocket in Jackson crime over the course of 2005-now. What's the story? Why did we go from 16 to 42... and then back on up to 23? What happened post-2004 to drive crime levels up again?

Hurricane Katrina and its aftermath?
How about our certifiably bonkers, gun-toting guerrilla mayor, Frank Melton?
Couldn't possibly be the lack of effective infrastructure, and the fact that here, as everywhere, funding for good community-based programs is often the first line item on the budget to get slashed... 'cause you know, education, empowerment and social services have NO effect on crime...

But hey, could be worse. We could be in Michigan. (Wait a minute...)

*It should be noted that three of the 25 Safest Cities, according to the same study, are also in Michigan. Not so for Mississippi. Then again, we only have so many metropolitan areas of over 75,000 people down here...

Urban Family Thanksgiving

2007-11-19T10:42:00.000-05:00

Last week, my good friend K approached me and said, "Hey Beth, you know how you always refer to our little crew as our 'urban family'?"

"Yes?" (It's true. I do. I probably overuse the phrase, in fact.)

"Well... I was thinking... what if we had a little Urban Family Thanksgiving?"

That small conversation kicked off our planning for the event, to be hosted by Mama K and Crazy Aunt Beth. With quick enthusiasm, our little crew all pitched in: M designed the lovely graphic for our invitation; A brought extra tables and chairs; EVERYONE offered to bring food or alcohol... and despite one friend's protest that "eatin's cheatin', we should just drink!", we had an incredible spread of food when the urban family gathered this past weekend.

There were no speeches about what we were thankful for, no toasts, no words of prayer said before diving into our food. But there were about two dozen people, of varying ages and backgrounds, sharing stories and drinks and laughter. As I sat surrounded by the members of my urban family, sipping my seasonally appropriate cranberry martini, I began to feel genuine gratitude fill me. I was lucky enough to be born into a terrific family, but through choice and circumstance, my nearest biological-family members are several hours' drive from where I live, and most are much further... yet here, with this motley crew, we have created a strong network of support, love, and encouragement, fortified with healthy doses of gossip and neuroses, and maybe even a little dysfunction... we are, indeed, an urban family of the most wonderful sort. A collaborative holiday meal was a fitting, and filling, reminder of just how much we have to be thankful for in our little corner of the world.

I believe a new tradition has been born.

May all of you, your urban families, your biological families, your traditional and non-traditional families, and everyone, have a wonderful Thanksgiving.

Beth Is Where the Heart Is

2007-11-12T10:38:00.000-05:00

Saturday morning, lying in shavasana pose in my yoga classroom. I am finally beginning to feel a little relaxed. My mind begins to drift.

I have been traveling for the seven weekends prior to this one. I have long been dealing with the existential crisis of our far-flung and continuously mobile society, and the resulting fact that no matter where I live, I will never be able to be physically proximate to all of the family and friends I most deeply love. Being on the road so much lately, it has been a delight to realize that wherever I go, I have a port in every storm - but also sad to depart each port, and sadder still to feel rootless, and miss even those who live near where my mail is currently delivered.

As my mind drifts deeper into the yoga-soothed meditative state, I begin thinking of home. What is home? Where is home? Who is home?

A long-buried memory resurfaces.

When I was in high school, I took a summer Hebrew course offered by an Israeli-Frenchman. For anyone who knows any stereotypes about the French, or about the Israelis, you can imagine that such a combination would produce the most condescending, chain-smoking, dubious person ever (stereotypically speaking, of course). Well, this man was that stereotype personified. He asked us to all go around the room and introduce ourselves, and if we had Hebrew names, to share them. As it happens, I do have a Hebrew name, Beit.

"Beit?" Sneered the Israeli-Frenchman. "Beit, that means house. Your parents, zey named you House? Are zey stupid?"

The rest of the class tittered. They all either didn't have Hebrew names, or had good solid ones like David, Daniel, or Rivka.

"It's a name, too," I defended weakly.

"Oh sure, sure," shrugged the Israeli-Frenchman, pursing his lips, probably less at me and more at the stupid rule that barred him from smoking in the classroom. "But no one is actually named that anymore. It is, how you say, old-fashioned. Out of date." He snickered. "It is not normal, to just be a girl named House!"

I had no further defense, and truly - I thought of my name as meaning "house." Even after seven semester of college-level Hebrew, when I thought of my name, I translated it as "house." But unexpectedly, in the midst of a yoga meditation, years later and wholly out of context, revelation: Beit means, even more literally than it means "house"... "home."

Such a simple realization, such small semantic differences - but the room felt suddenly warmer. It was odd to be named house, but what did mean to be named home?

I began to mull this over. Meanwhile, I left the sanctity of the yoga studio and life continued to hit, with complications and twists and surprises and confusions arising as they do. I sent a frustrated email to a friend, and I received a response that soothed me more than this friend can know. I had not shared my "home" revelation with anyone, but this is what my friend wrote to me, about me:

"...this Beth keeps a lot of people sane, safe, comforted, fed, smiling, and feeling good about themselves. And that's just for starters."

And all I could think was, is that me? I really do that? That sounds like... home.

If it is true, how lucky I am to live up to the incredible name my brilliant parents gave me. Like a snail with its shell on its back, wherever I go, I will take home with me. It is who and what I should be: I will bring with me, for those I love, the gifts of a solid home: trust, shelter, safety, love.

I am not, as the Israeli-Frenchman wrote me off more than a decade ago, a girl named House. I am Beth, and I am home.

*************************************************************************************
Rejected titles for this post:

The Beth that Ken and Lisa Built (because "Beth" there would be substituting for house instead of home, AND because it makes me sound like a weird robot my parents constructed using aluminum and shiny buttons)
There's No Place Like Beth (I'm a place now? ....Are you calling me fat?)
Beth Sweet Beth (Too saccharine)
Bethland Security (Too militant)
Beth, Beth On the Range (Too cooked-sounding, frankly.)

Nobody's Body But Mine

2007-10-29T10:28:00.000-04:00

There was a strange song on one of the children's records I listened to as a kid. Strange in hindsight: growing up, I didn't find it weird in the least. Tucked in among all the tracks from early-80's kid-music rock stars like Rafi, Gemini, and Bert & Ernie, my music collection contained a little Peter Alsop ditty called "My Body." Six years old, every time the song was in the player, I would dance around freely, jumping and swiveling and calling out these lyrics:

"My Body"

CHORUS: My body's nobody's body but mine! You run your own body, let me run mine!

My nose was made to sniff and to sneeze/To smell what I want, and to blow when I please!/My lungs were made to hold air when I breathe,I am in charge of just how much I need! (CHORUS)

My legs were made to dance me around/To walk and to run and to jump up and down!/My mouth was made to blow-up a balloon/I can eat, kiss and spit, I can whistle a tune! (CHORUS)

No one knows my body better than me/It tells me, "Let's eat!", it tells me "Go pee!"/Don't hit me or kick me, don't push or shove/Don't hug me too hard when you show me your love (CHORUS)

Sometimes it's hard to say "No!" and be strong/When those "No!" feelings come, then I know something's wrong/'Cause My body's mine from my head to my toe/Please leave it alone when you hear me say "No!" (CHORUS)

Secrets are fun when they're filled with surprise/But not when they hurt us with tricks, threats and lies… (CHORUS)

The fact that this was a "safety song," subtly teaching me to "just say no" to any unwanted intrusion into my personal space, was lost on me. I thought it was a celebration of my body back then, back when we were all young enough to genuinely celebrate our bodies: this is MY body, and I LOVE it! You have your own body that tells YOU when to pee, and mine tells ME when to pee, and it's AWESOME!

I recently remembered this song, and tracked down the lyrics above. Looking at the words that once seemed to me a joyous celebration of self, I now feel entirely new and different emotions. At what point did I learn that, in fact, bodies need to be protected? That tricks, threats, and lies inflicted by others against our physical selves, can be a harsh and painful reality?

On another, but equally important level, when did I stop celebrating my body? Safety is one issue, but so is security-- as in, when do we learn all this insecurity? When and why do most of us transition from loving our bodies to worrying whether or not other people will judge them too harshly?

We don't self-generate all this paranoia, of course; lessons are often learned through repetition and life experiences. I am struck by how frequently people think it is all right to pass judgment on bodies -- particularly on women's bodies. This past weekend, after I delivered a speech, someone said (to a colleague of mine, who he had only just met) something along the lines of "That Beth sure is cute... a little too skinny, though." Meanwhile, just a few months ago, someone else commented directly to me that I "could stand to drop a few pounds." Both times, I was in a professional or academic setting -- and the levels of frustration I have with these comments are multiple.

First of all, I clearly can't win -- I'm always too thin or too fat, apparently. It's like cold weather: always comes a little earlier than we expected, or a little later than we expected -- never right on schedule, is it? Secondly, how is my weight or appearance relevant to the speech or presentation I just gave? Not too sound overly feminist-soap-boxing, but how often do men stand up, give an engaging talk, and then receive feedback along with a hearty handshake: "Joe, I have to tell you, those pants you're wearing just aren't very flattering..."

Third -- who asked you, anyway?!

I'm beginning to recall a lesson I internalized many years ago, while dancing around a tiny duplex filled with the sounds of scratchy-vinyl music:

My body's nobody's body but mine! You run your own body! Let me run mine!

*P.S. I have no explanation for the creepy Peter Alsop record cover that Google Images yielded for me. Safety songs for children by day... movies out on the town with a mannequin by night? Well, if nothing else, Creepy Peter Alsop Album Cover reminds me that I want to see Lars & The Real Girl...

Ready, set...

2007-10-22T12:31:00.000-04:00

"If you want something done, give it to a busy person."

I don't even remember the first time I heard this pithy little quote, but it's been part of my life for a good many years now. Generally it's cast in my direction as someone shoves a folder, a flash drive, a set of car keys in my hand, knowing that if they give me the the task, said task will be completed.
Busy is good, bustle is terrific, chaos is an environment in which I am generally quite comfortable. However, at some point, it is possible for one's plate to become too full.

A favorite friend and I went out to brunch earlier this month, and she ordered the special that morning: scrambled eggs and fried chicken. This struck me as oddly avian-cannibal in composition (but I'm a vegetarian, so what do I know?). I politely asked her:

"How's your chicken-and-egg meal?"

To which she perfectly replied: "I think it's good... I just don't know what to eat first."

Indeed. Now imagine if her plate had contained not only chicken and egg, but several dozen other food items getting in the way of her classic dilemma. Where to begin? Where to begin?

Welcome to Crazyville, Population: Everyone.

2007-10-14T23:22:00.000-04:00

The other morning, my good friend and I were discussing Crazyville. Crazyville is a neighborhood with which we are both familiar. You have probably lived there at some point, too -- and if you haven't, you will. It's a transitional neighborhood, and the epitome of "transient community," but everyone winds up there. It's a requirement of life: not everyone has to be mayor, but every single one of us has to spend a few nights in Crazyville.

In Crazyville, the houses are always full, but there are also always vacancies. It's hard to point to the charm of Crazyville. People are drawn there for mysterious, unknowable reasons. After all, the neighbors can be bizarre. The night life is lacking. Most city services are insufficient (though there is a recycling program...).

The postal system there is decent; messages from outside of Crazyville are delivered with astounding frequency, though many residents of Crazyville leave their post office boxes unchecked for months on end... so news from the outside world is often delayed.

It's a city of contradictions: people say one thing, then do something else. Dramatic posts on sites like LiveJournal and MySpace reach epic proportions, all originating from the various corners of Crazyville. There are few co-ops, but lots of co-dependency. Everyone there knows, either vaguely or poignantly, that this isn't really the place for them. Some people do take up permanent residence in Crazyville, giving up their rental and purchasing real estate, but most of us ultimately pass through this railroad town. Sometimes, though, moving on is difficult.

Why is it so hard to move out of Crazyville? Well, the rent is low, and you know where all the good restaurants are, and sometimes, there's this roommate who co-signed on the lease...

And, as we all know, moving is a big old pain in the ass.

Thing is, once you're out of Crazyville, you realize just how much you love your new neighborhood. It's strange, at first, but gradually, you make new friends, take a few classes, learn that the new restaurants are actually becoming your new favorites. You think, why didn't I move before now?

Occasionally, you get wind of some friend or loved one who has taken up residence in Crazyville. Knowing how much better things are where you reside now, you send them a postcard. Getting no response, you send a longer letter, perhaps even a real estate brochure for properties outside the Crazyville city limits. Then you remember: the letters make it to the Crazyville Post Office, but the message doesn't really get through until the citizen of Crazyville decides it's time to check their box...

Because it's too good not to share...

2007-10-11T10:49:00.000-04:00

Details, details, details

2007-10-10T10:06:00.000-04:00

Dear Readers:

October is an extremely travel-heavy month for this little writer, and while I will try to keep up some semblance of a Bethweek posting schedule, it may be a bit erratic for the foreseeable future. The good news is, travel tends to yield stories, so when I do post, I'll try to share the most poignant or gut-busting of the moments.

This week's story is a little of column A, a little of column B -- and mostly a reminder to pay attention to detail, and really clarify your requests:

My travels this week began at 5 a.m. in Jackson, Mississippi. I remember literally nothing about my first flight that day; I somehow stumbled through security, made it onto the little plane bound for Newark, New Jersey, and slept my way up North. I arrived in Newark, and before catching my next plane, an even smaller one destined for Providence, Rhode Island, I had just enough time to get a coffee.

Getting the coffee was a mistake. Getting the coffee meant that I was awake to fully realize the condition of the small second plane.

To begin, the "door wasn't aligning right" with the normal walkway, so we had to all walk outside and climb a rickety staircase to enter the shuddering aircraft. The layout of the tiny space went old-school-overstuffed-leather-seat, aisle, old-school-overstuffed-leather-seat. (Except for my part of the plane, since I was seated in the back, and my row went old-school-overstuffed-leather-seat, aisle, bathroom-with-door-that-wouldn't stay closed). The old-school overstuffed leather seats did not match: some were blue, some tan, some gray, with no evident pattern in their placement.

The only appropriate word for this plane was "hoopty."

As the Air Hoopty began to back away from the terminal, there was this horrible creaking and rocking sound, like a car with poor shocks or off-bearing, only magnified, sounding something like:

WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEK WONKA WONKA WONKA WONKA...

... as we lurched around the tarmac. More terrifying noises rumbled and squealed and belched their way forward when we began to prepare for takeoff. I closed my eyes and began to pray:

"Please God let me make it to Providence today, let me make it to Providence today, let me make it to Providence today..."

As Air Hoopty heaved its way into the sky, shaking and moaning, realization hit me. I re-examined the words of my prayer. My eyes flew open and my mind quickly edited:

"Providence RHODE ISLAND! Providence RHODE ISLAND! Providence RHODE ISLAND!!!!"

On Being a Grown Up

2007-10-01T01:33:00.000-04:00

Senior year of college, several of my friends shared one-quarter of a sprawling old New England manor, a house depressed by its own conversion from affluent one-family home to ramshackle, under-manicured, spliced-int0-four-apartments college rental housing. I, too, lived in once-lovely old home, but way off-campus, so it was my friends' house that became my second home: close to campus, filled with a constant parade of people. It was the site of countless parties, movie nights, celebratory wine bottle-uncorkings as one by one we got into graduate school, accepted jobs, decided to move to Europe and bartend. At weekly dinner parties, all our clever, hilarious, and ridiculous quotes were written on poster-boards on the wall, preserved for us to laugh at again the next weekend.

Towards the end of our senior year, the parties picked up in their frequency and intensity as we all tried to experience as much undergraduate abandon as possible. Sometimes it would become too much for me and I would slip outside, often alone but just as often joined by another temporary refugee. Such was the case one night less than a week before commencement. Sitting on the crumbling first-floor porch of the once-grand house, the din of the second-floor party became a dull background hum. I was sitting, eyes closed, breathing in the brisk-Massachusetts May evening, when a friend eased himself down on the steps beside me.

"Hey," he said. "Seen my girlfriend?"

"She might be in the kitchen," I replied.

"As well she should be," he said with a smirk.

I punched him.

He laughed. "So. Sunday. We'll be Bachelor's, or something. College graduates. Grown-ups."

I shook my head. "Nope."

He raised an eyebrow, gave me a this'll be good look. "Nope?"

"No, I decided that's not how it works," I said, making it up as I went along: "See, you get four years in high school... freshman year, sophomore year, junior year, senior year. Same thing in college, four years, freshman-sophomore-junior-senior."

"We were first-years here," he corrected me. "They called us first-years, not freshmen, because freshmen is sexist. We're at PCU, remember?"

"Says the guys who just said women should be in the kitchen. Anyway, the point is, you get four years. That's the increment. So I've decided that post-college, you get four years before you have to be a grown up: a freshman year--"

"First year."

"Fine - a first year, sophomore year, junior year and senior year out-of-college. You have all that time to figure out how to be a grown-up outside of the college bubble, and then, that fifth year out of college... that's your first year as a grown-up."

He considered this, then nodded: "Good call."

So let it be written, so let it be done -- we had established a new precedent, comfortably far away. After all, freshman year felt so long ago. How quickly could another four years go by?

I woke up a few mornings back and realized: in the blink of an eye. I've used up my four years. In fact, I missed my theoretical commencement, which would have fallen several months ago... and now I find myself halfway through my first year as a self-designated grown up.

I thought, that can't be right. I started to look for clues and the evidence mounted quickly: I not only pay taxes, but complete and file them on my own. I own my own car. I've been paying my own housing, insurance, and general expenses for years. I have a dog and a Master's degree and have been chipping away at my undergraduate loans for some time now. I have business cards. I've moved cross-country multiple times. Last week I had a conversation about pop culture with someone who was born in a year that began with "20" instead of "19" (this is a first-grader who knows her reality television like no other). The friend who bore witness to my post-college adult-track curriculum is soon to be married, and many others are showing similarly alarming signs of maturity.

At some point, we crossed over.

There are plenty of adult milestones I have yet to hit in my own life - I don't think marriage, buying a house or having kids are activities on the immediate horizon, and I'm still sketching out the exact structure of the blueprints for "what I want to be when I grow up." But standing in this new location, surveying the land of Adulthood, I have come to a terrifying realization: There are no grown-ups. It's just us out here, looking around with the same puzzled expression, wondering where all the adults went, and trying to pinpoint just when it was that we stopped having any friends living on the second floor of a decrepit old Boston mansion with insistent music, and quotes on the wall, and a quiet porch for refuge.

What Broken Hearts Can Learn from Broken Noses

2007-09-23T11:15:00.000-04:00

The pain of the initial impact is blinding: a baseball slams into your face and shatters the sensitive bones of your nose. Reeling and bleeding, you have two choices. You can either go to the emergency room, where you will likely have to endure the pain of having your nose re-broken by the doctor to ensure it is properly set for healing. Or, you can quickly mute the pain with ice, tell yourself it's not that bad, and stay in the game.

However, when a nose is first broken, it is, medically speaking, more efficient to right then and there reset to its original position and allow it to heal correctly the first time -- whereas if a broken nose goes untreated, deformity of the nose occurs, usually resulting in a crooked bridge, a bumpy bridge, or a combination of the two. When this is the case, at some later date, when you have trouble breathing, or just can't look at yourself in the mirror any longer, a doctor or cosmetic surgeon will need to reset it, which involves re-breaking the nose.

With the heart, there seems to be a parallel. After the initial blinding pain, the shattering of your heart, you have two choices. You can either spend some time immediately re-breaking your heart - resisting the urge to fall back into familiar arms, ignoring phone calls, doing the difficult work of dealing with yourself. Or, you can "stay in the game:" you can choose to sidestep that immediate re-breaking, understandably wanting to save yourself more simultaneous pain - and you "heal" by seeking immediate comfort in those familiar arms, that familiar voice. Though your heart was shattered, you quickly erase all memory of the injury

... and thus untreated, some deformity of the heart occurs... and later, when you finally realize that you are having difficulty breathing, or you can no longer look at yourself in the mirror... your heart must be re-broken, only then to have some hope of healing and restoring itself to full functionality.

There are some differences between broken hearts and broken noses, of course. For noses, there is anesthesia. For hearts, there is only time.

As Claire Danes' character, Mirabelle, said in Shopgirl: "Hurt now, or hurt later? .... Hurt now." Tears were in her eyes, as she slowly nodded her way through her wrenching choice. Biting her lip, she made the most difficult but most healthy call, and walked away from the person who might give her a few more good moments, but would undoubtedly hurt her again in the end.

The fictitious Mirabelle had the wisdom to know that delaying payment of pain owed is a finite layaway plan - the bill always comes due, and often the amount has compounded and increased while we pretended it wasn't there. In real life, most of us are not so wise. We have to keep breaking and breaking and breaking before we finally learn: pain later is often pain greater, and part of that pain lies in the knowledge that while the initial wound might be blamed on someone else, this pain ... we could have spared ourselves.

The truly tricky part? Knowing when our heart is broken, and when it is only bruised. When do we stay, and when do we walk away? Broken hearts can learn something from broken noses... but there is still so much unknown.

Channeling Lynne Truss

2007-09-18T11:34:00.000-04:00

Do not bring unpaid merchandise into the bathroom.

The words leered down at me from a placard on a lavatory door in a major department store. It took me a moment to identify the funny feeling in my tummy. Why did the sign instantly irritate me? What was this odd sensation? Who or what exactly was this persona taking over my senses?

Then, in a moment full of secret identity-shedding, superhero-revealing glory, I became the Grammar Rodeo Queen.

Who, you ask, is the Grammar Rodeo Queen? Ha! Ha HA!

...all right, no need for dramatic buildup: it's me. "GRQ" was my high school boyfriend's nickname for me. (Romantic, no?) Friend and foe alike would ask me to edit their essays and school reports. Incorrectly spelled words, incorrectly used words, and incorrect grammar were unacceptable. In fits of syntactic rage, I would turn green and SMASH sentences into proper forms.

Eventually, I learned that this is a rather irritating trait. Though all too happy to utilize my editing skills when a grade was on the line, most friends found my obsession with words boring-- pretentious, even. I learned to rein in the rodeo queen and leave grammar alone. In fact, I submerged so much of GRQ that these days I would find diagramming a sentence to be quite a Herculean task. Transitive, intransitive... I rarely pick apart grammar these days. GRQ has been largely subdued.

She surfaces occasionally. When I first read "Eats, Shoots, and Leaves," there was copious snorting, and I blame it all on GRQ. Usually, though, her appearances are not so jovial. After months of near-invisibility, an unbidden trigger sets her off. It can be something small. In fact, it's usually something quite small, a subtle trigger such as the unexpected sign:

Do not bring unpaid merchandise into the bathroom.

This is a clear violation of the English language!

Pay attention to the noun, people! The first "person, place, or thing" in question here is the merchandise. Now look at the mangled member of the verb family limping along between "bring" and "merchandise." Pay? Really? Before I enter the bathroom, you want me to pay the merchandise?

No matter what you do, merchandise will rarely be paid. Workers can be paid or unpaid (though they are happier when paid). The distributor or manufacturer or retailer can be paid. Merchandise cannot. (Of course, if the worker and the merchandise are one and the same, perhaps the merchandise can be paid. Aside from prostitution, I can think of few examples where this is the case, and I highly doubt this was the sort of merchandise to which the bathroom sign was referring... although... it was the bathroom door...)

The sign, therefore, should have read something along the lines of:

Do not bring UN-PURCHASED merchandise into the bathroom.

The purchasing is what happens to and therefore directly modifies the merchandise, not the paying.

Am I wrong? Where is Lynne Truss when you need her? It's high time she and I had tea. Oh, Ms. Truss! I understand that "Call me, Ishmael" and "Call me Ishmael" are two completely different sentences. I love appropriately placed commas, and adore correctly-applied vocabulary. Thank you for serving as an international grammar role model.

(My apologies to everyone who found this blog boring and/or pretentious; I simply had to let fly the lasso of the Grammar Rodeo Queen. She's been eating me up all week.)

... And a Dollar Short

2007-09-11T10:04:00.000-04:00

Due to yet another hectic weekend, this posting is tardy, and now appears on Tuesday, September 11, 2007.

With apologies to former UnshelvingBeth readers, I am reposting the reflection on 9/11 I wrote last year. Though innovation is important, there is something to be said for tradition as well, and it seems appropriate to share a second-annual post reflecting on the tragedy that occurred six years ago today, on Tuesday, September 11, 2001.

Living Stories

My creative writing class. A table full of young writers, headed by a vibrant Southern author who tsk tsk tsks us when we use clichés like "her eyes are filled with tears." It’s a 9am class, and we are commenting on a classmates' story of new love -- a difficult topic to tackle without using any clichés. Almost immediately after the class begins, a cell phone rings. This elicits an instantaneous tsk as our professor's eyebrows hit her hairline. "Which one of y'all brought a cell phone to class?"

We all turn innocent faces back to her. We know the rule. In honor of our beloved professor, our cell phones are all off or absent. The phone keeps ringing.

She flushes crimson. “Oh good Lord, it’s mine,” she chuckles, reaching into her oversize knit bag. “It’s my husband – must be some sort of emergency. Please forgive me,” she says, taking the call. “Honey, I’m in class, so this better – what? Well that’s strange. How very odd. All right – bye.”

She places her cell phone back in her purse, and reports with a puzzled face, “My husband says that a plane just crashed into the World Trade Center.”

We are all mystified, all tripping over similar bemused questions: A small plane? Anyone hurt? Was it a navigational error, or some sort of mechanical failure? One student, saying her father works near there, excuses herself to see if she can reach him. The rest of us return to our stories, confused but not shaken.

The phone rings again.

Flinching slightly, our professor takes out her vibrating cell, looks at the caller ID. “It’s my husband again. I can’t think why he’d need to call back – I won’t be a minute – I’ll just – hold on. Hello? Hi, sweetheart… what? … What? I… That’s just … okay. Okay. I love you too.”

She ends her call and somehow seems to meet all of our eyes at once. Her voice wavers like the watery air above a blistering fire. “A second plane flew into the World Trade Center. They’re pretty sure we’re under some sort of terrorist attack.”

Too stunned to speak, we stare. It never crossed our minds. Our naïveté had shielded us from the first crash, but the second plane went right through us.

The professor speaks again: “I don’t believe there’s anything we can do just yet. Shall we stay in our stories a little while longer?” It is not yet 9:30am on Tuesday, September 11th, 2001. We mutely nod: we want to live in our fiction just a little while longer.

But then our other classmate walks back into the classroom, and her eyes are filled with tears.

©Beth Kander (please do not reprint without permission of the author)

"P" -ness Envy

2007-09-03T23:36:00.000-04:00

A few weeks ago, my good friend D was in town for a conference, and I was fortunate enough to get a few hours with her post-conference. We embarked on a mini-road trip to Grenada, Mississippi. Towards the end of our drive, D let out a small yelp, and said "Oh my God! I didn't tell you about discovering my p-ness."

I have known this woman long enough to know that if I just raised my eyebrows, she would likely clarify.

Seeing my brows and registering what she had just said, she burst out laughing and said "No no no, that came out wrong, I mean my inner p-ness."

"I think whatever you're trying to say is still coming out wrong," I said, suspecting she was probably not identifying herself as a hermaphrodite.

"Yeah yeah yeah, wait a minute, I just got so excited to tell you about this, I'll back up," she said quickly. "Have you ever taken a Myers-Briggs Type Indicator test?"

I was, in fact, familiar with the MBTI, a personality test that gauges "preferences" across four categories, each of which has two possible letters/types. For example: "Do you prefer to focus on the outer world or on your own inner world?" If you choose outer, you are Extroverted (E); if you choose inner, you are Introverted (I). Of course, the questions are asked far more comprehensively and far less obviously, but that's the basic gist. By the end of the test, you have your own specific letters across the four preferences; there are 16 different general "profiles" into which a person can fall.

"Well," said D, "For years I've tested as INFJ -- introverted, intuitive, feeling, judging. But I recently re-tested, and I'm on the cusp of J (judging) and P (perceiving). And since Js are supposed to be more organized and decision-oriented and I'm just not like that, I'm so thrilled to consider exploring my P-ness--"

At that point I requested that she begin referring to her "P-quality."

"Anyway," she said, "It's very liberating. You're totally a J, right? Because you're so organized and decisive--"

It was my turn to burst out laughing. "Organized? Decisive? Are you kidding?"

"Well," she said, "If that's the case, you hide your P.... quality really well."

P's, you see, are process-rather-than product, ideas more than implementation, leaving doors open rather than confidently selecting ... and while in my professional life, I can be product-implementation-decision focused, the truth is it's difficult for me... and for how many others? Apparently, I am a P in J's clothing. (We shall refer to this phenomenon as my PJ's.) I can fake people out and have them think I am a solid J.

But I know the truth. The ENFP (extroverted, intuitive, feeling, perceiving) label fits me well; it calls me out on several of my strengths and weaknesses:

ENFP
Warmly enthusiastic and imaginative. See life as full of possibilities. Make connections between events and information very quickly, and confidently proceed based on the patterns they see. Want a lot of affirmation from others, and readily give appreciation and support. Spontaneous and flexible, often rely on their ability to improvise and their verbal fluency.

What this brief cheery overview glosses over is the tendency of P's to have difficulty staying on track... and for all my alleged J-posturing, every once in awhile, I get so caught up on whatever else I have going on I get caught, for lack of a better phrase, with my "p"ants down. Like in this crazy time, when I've kept plates spinning at work, and taken on a few additional tasks - but neglected my blog. I "p"romise to re-engage in this site and apologize for the lapse.

(Due to the tardiness of this post, I briefly thought of titling it "Two Weeks Late Due to P-ness," and while I know that would have elicited a few chuckles, I just couldn't imagine that every reaction would be quite so jovial - and I myself would have turned bright red had someone else used that title - so it was quickly scrapped. Call it a well-played J decision.)

... but I can tell you why fire engines are red.

2007-08-12T21:45:00.001-04:00

Why are fire engines red?

Fire engines are red because newspapers are read, too, and two times two is four, and three times four is twelve, and twelve inches is a ruler, and a ruler was Queen Mary, and Queen Mary was a ship that sailed on the sea, and in the sea there are fish, and on fish there are fins, and everyone knows that the Finns fought the Russians, and fire engines are always rushin' around, and THAT'S why fire engines are red!

A magician shared that little wordplay at a company picnic my father's former employers had one summer, circa 1988. For some reason, though I heard him say it only once (and there was no Google in those days for me to go search for the spiel later), my very young brain retained every word. I repeated it for my parents later. I made my little brothers memorize it. We incorporated it into our Entertain All Guests at the Kander Home-and-Road-Show routine.

I probably haven't said those words in close to two decades.

Then last week, a coworker handed me a ruler, and said: "Beth, I'm giving you this because you rule!"

I said, "Well, I don't know if I rule, but I can tell you that rulers factor in to why fire engines are red."

And then, like I'd been saying it every day for the last twenty years, without stumbling even once, I told him why fire engines are red. (And then he called me a weirdo and went back to his office.)

How did I pull that out of the recesses of my memory? The human brain is endlessly fascinating. Lately I feel that my memory has been poorer than usual. I will meet six new people at a dinner party and remember the names of only three. I'll forget to check email before I leave the house and have to stop by my office to log on and get the directions I needed that were waiting in my inbox. I'll pack a lunch and leave it on the counter when I exit the building.

Lately, I can't tell you what I had for breakfast the day before, what outfit I was wearing before I put my pajamas on, what the house number is on the apartment directly across the street from me...

...but, as I'm sure you'll be relieved to know... I can tell you quite definitively why fire engines are red.

"The whole world is a very narrow bridge/and the most important part/is not to be afraid..."

2007-08-06T00:16:00.000-04:00

The bridge collapse in Minneapolis is difficult to fathom because the prologue to the tragedy is so familiar: rush hour. Downtown, major metropolitan area. People talking on their phones to their friends, yelling at kids in the backseat to be quiet, sipping a Starbucks latte. Maybe noticing the gas tank needs to be refilled. Crossing a big, sturdy bridge.

And then plummeting faster than comprehension allows towards the murky waters of the Mississippi.

Earthquakes are considered a particularly psychologically-damaging form of natural disaster; evidently, the sensation of the very earth becoming unsteady has a deeply unsettling impact. Where can you go, what can you do, when the foundation you have trusted countless times before suddenly gives way? A bridge collapse must be similar: trapped in your car, no longer with a road beneath you...

It seems that the fear of other imminent bridge collapses now haunts the country. While still reeling from and dealing with the Minneapolis disaster, reporters across the country have raced to proclaim what impending potential doom awaits. Of the 10,000 bridges in metro-Jackson, one reporter warned me as I strode on the elliptical machine, almost 3,000 are in need of major repair.

The dangerous state of our nation's bridges and the lack of funding for repairs is the focus of most conversations about the Minneapolis collapse. On the radio this morning, as I drove familiar roads to work, a road commission official being interviewed was clearing his throat nervously, assuring the public: "Yes, many bridges out there are in need of repair, and deemed structurally deficient. But that doesn't mean they are going to collapse. You can't start being afraid than any bridge you drive on might crumble. You have to keep on driving."

It brought tears to my eyes, not only for those impacted by the recent bridge collapse, but for all of us who must live with that tenuousness. Nearly all the bridges are shaky, but we have to drive across them, though they might break. We are all structurally deficient, but we have to open our hearts, though they might break. We have to keep going, keep driving, keep hoping.

Then I made it to my desk, and on my NPR homepage, there was this picture, with this caption:

Lorena Trinidad-Martinez is baptized following a funeral mass for her father, who was killed in the collapse of the I-35W bridge on Wednesday.

A family keeping faith in the wake of tragedy. Moving not only metaphorically but also achingly literally from water to water, one death, one life. It is not fair; it just is.

And so we keep crossing the next bridges as we come to them.

If you really want to be President of the United States

2007-07-31T10:46:00.001-04:00

"Those who are too smart to engage in politics are punished by being governed by those who are dumber." ~Plato

It was around my sophomore year of college that I gave up my serious political aspirations. In a huff, turned off by too many smear campaigns and political scandals, I decided that someone else could be the first female president. Actually, the reasons I decided to forgo politics were identical to the reasons I decided I could not pursue being a professional actress: a certain thickness of skin and a certain willingness to plunge knives into the skin of others seemed to be pre-requisites for having any prayer at advancing through the ranks. Brains and talent would always be secondary to ruthless ambition. When it came down to it, I had a huge liability, a fatal character flaw: too nice.

So I gave up my politics and pre-law focus and set up camp in the American Studies department, deciding to focus on cultural, environmental, literary and journalistic realms (clearly, all topics far removed from any politics...). I tried to keep out of direct engagement with politics. I did note the irony that in Boston, my social/political views were labeled "moderate," yet when I moved to the Deep South I was slapped with a new label: "flaming liberal." When I went to graduate school in Ann Arbor to get a Master's in Social Work, the paradigm shifted again; relative to some of my classmates, I was no longer a liberal or even a moderate but a "borderline conservative." The funny thing was, over the course of those years, my opinions and stances never really changed. It's like living in an area of increasing urban sprawl, where your area code or zip code gets changed three times while you still live in the same house.

I took one course in the politics department when I was in graduate school. There were plenty of politics in the social work school, and plenty of classes on policy, but not really classes on politics. My politics professor, an intimidatingly brilliant man, shared an anecdote about voting choices of low-wage workers in England, not so many decades ago. Though there was a Labor party candidate, theoretically representing the interests of the working class many of the actual laborers voted for the nobleman opponent, and one worker gave the explanation: "On such things [as politics], I defer to my betters."

"Defer to my betters"? As in, the wealthy and well-bred are more deserving, automatically? A social caste system? In modern England? Difficult to fathom...

... but then again, here in the United States, bastion of democracy, we tend to elect older, privileged, good-family-name, non-minority male Presidents. In fact, it's really all we've ever done. Are we somehow subconsciously deferring to our perceived "betters"?

Rather than vote for "my better," I want to have someone better for whom to vote. Someone who has not only met the requirements of being born in this country, over 35 years ago - but who has also experienced what it's really like to live in this country. Not a career politician, but a hard-working, educated, life-experienced American citizen. I know it's a tall order... but as my genius mother and genius friend and I discussed the other day, real-world on-the-ground experience of what it's like to be an "average American" (whatever that means) is really not such a crazy idea. So, based largely on our conversation a few days ago and then some continued musing, here are the five reasonable basics that I think we should require of our presidential candidates.

PRE-REQUISITES FOR THE PRESIDENCY

1. Spend at least a year living below the poverty line. Go through the process of applying for food stamps and federal assistance, weaving your way through the beurocracy, dealing with the stigma.

2. Have a passionate interest that has zero to do with politics, and pursue it. Get rejected a few times. Fall off the horse. Get back on. (Don't subsequently use the photographs of yourself sailing as proof that you're really a fun person; just be a fun person.) If you have done nothing but work on political campaigns, first for others and then for yourself, you are automatically disqualified; you clearly cannot be president, you can only work on campaigns.

3. Travel overseas, and learn at least one foreign language. Before making decisions that impact other nations, spend some time having to obey their laws and getting to enjoy their flavors. Don't stay at ritzy hotels. Stay at hostels.

4. Be a philanthropist. Even during the period of time when you're living below the poverty line, remember that someone else has it worse, and volunteer for a literacy program, donate a dollar to medical research, spend some time with a kid who needs a mentor, listen to an older person who has stories to share. Philanthropy, after all, means "love of people." Demonstrate that love.

5. Know what it's like to be an outsider. If there is not much diversity within your own family tree, seek out diversity in your circles of friends. Go out on a limb and be "the only" sometimes - the only girl in the pick-up baseball game, the only guy in the yoga class, the only young person at the senior citizen center. You don't have to do this constantly, but you do have to do it, even if it is uncomfortable. How can you run the nation of the huddled masses yearning to breathe free if you have never known breathlessness?

I can think of many other instructive guidelines, but if someone could nail all 5 of these, that's an excellent start. Perhaps if these requirements were in place, I would rethink a bid for the presidency. After all, I'd still be too nice, but I would have taken care of all the prerequisites necessary to enable my candidacy. Which presidential hopeful in 2008 can say the same?

What other requirements would you like your president to complete?

Technically Speaking

2007-07-23T22:47:00.000-04:00

I know what I have to say. The words are there. I just have to say them, commit to them, trust that they are right.

It's tech week, also affectionately called "hell week" by those who have lived through such a phenomenon before. The last few days before a show opens: everyone who has been learning their own choreography must become part of the larger dance. The actors, the directors, light, sound, props, set - all critical elements. Though I'm involved as an actor this time around, I'm under no illusion that my role is any more important than any other. As I learned when performing at the London Fringe Festival a few years back, without the costume, lighting and sound crew, actors would be nothing more than naked people emoting in the dark.

However, there is a certain pressure that comes with being an actor. You're the one up in front of everyone, all eyes upon you, spotlights making the sweat trickle down your make-up caked cheek. Though I've kept my hand in the theatre world through my writing and some occasional directing or teaching, it's been three years since I've appeared in a full-length production. I've become accustomed to being the name on the page, not the girl on the stage.

Learning lines seems a little more difficult than I remember. Driving home tonight, I kept thinking:

I know what I have to say. The words are there. I just have to say them, commit to them, trust that they are right.

I know the lines. I do. They're there. Yet sometimes, when I reach for them, they get away from me. I stumble over a word, get the sentiment right but the words wrong, or start to say something too early and realize I need to transpose my sentence right as it begins to come out of my mouth. I know what I'm supposed to be saying, and more importantly, I know the impact of the words. Not just the abstract impact they might have on the audience, but the concrete impact that they have on my fellow cast members, and our crew. My words are cues. Others will respond verbally, visually, or through the flick of a switch based on the words that I utter. Yes, sometimes a good team will save you when you fumble - but who wants to be the one who drops the ball?

I know what I have to say. The words are there. I just have to say them, commit to them, trust that they are right.

When talking us through a difficult stretch where we feel pulled in opposite directions, yoga instructor Jean Powers frequently says, "...and isn't that just like life?" It's tech week. Other people are counting on me, and I'm counting on them. I know what I'm supposed to do, but it still requires some thought and effort, and will not necessarily be easy... but is ultimately so deliciously rewarding.

It's tech week... and isn't that just like life?

Stop. Start. Repeat.

2007-07-16T00:14:00.001-04:00

Fondren Theatre Workshop's first-ever Ten Minute Play Project was a tremendous success. The evening was one of those unexpectedly electric nights, where audience, entertainers, crew and writers all share a tingling anticipation for what will unfold. No one knew exactly what they were getting themselves into, but everyone was glad to be along for the ride.

The auditorium was filled with the sort of audience you just want to bottle up and take with you to every one of your future performances -- responsive, respectful, engaged. When they were supposed to chuckle, they laughed; when they were supposed to laugh, they guffawed. You could see playwrights beaming as their words evoked uproarious hooting from the enthusiastic crowd. As one of my favorite directors oft says, the audience is one of the most important, influential elements of a performance. This audience deserved a standing ovation.

The first piece of the evening was Brent Hearn's "The Redneck Bard of Verona Flats." In a unique combination of kitchen sink comedy and Shakespearean tongue (in cheek), Shakespeare's Ghost flitted through the trailer home of Mark and Maylene, a pair of, er, star-cross'd lovers. The most original, oh-my-God-I-just-snorted moments came from Maylene's bumbling inadvertent paraphrasing of classic Shakespeare lines, such as "The worst thing in here is the smell... there's something rottin' in the den, Mark." The audience was rolling in the aisles. The skilled direction of Diana Howell and the animated expressions of actors Brad Bishop, Seth McNeill and Lisa Fenshier made the play as visually entertaining as it was clever. Brent, however, may well have had the easiest prop pieces to incorporate into his piece (see last post for explanation of the guidelines for this ten minute play project) : a telephone, an apron, and a plush platypus.

The third show was Opie Cooper's screwball comedy "Legal Mumbo Jumbo." With a secretary with temporary hearing loss, an overstressed attorney and a client whose wig goes sailing off her head, how can you go wrong? Opie's props were more challenging: a plush elephant wearing a key-charm, a large pink tin rooster, and the aforementioned wig. However, Opie's clever turns of phrase enabled him to wrangle every prop into the script, and the almost-frenzied level of energy displayed by his cast, directed by Bettye Edwards, kept the piece popping from start to finish (or Stop to Start, as the case may be... again, I refer to the rules as outlined in the last post!). Alyssa Silberman, Katrina Byrd and James Anderson were quite the comedic trio.

The show wedged between the two comic successes was my piece, "Baby Steps." I won't comment on my own work, but will say that I was blown away by the take-charge direction of Richard Lawrence. Actors John Howell, Hannah Bryan and Lea Gunter slipped into their characters like second skins. I will also say that I had, I do believe, the most challenging props of all: a belly dancer costume (including headgear!), a concertina, and a watermelon on a leash. Knowing the comedic genius of Brent and Opie, local improv gurus that they are, I scrapped the absurdist comedy I was originally attempting to create and instead alternated humor with emotion in a ten-minute dramedy. Watermelon on a leash and all.

Much as I'm often tempted to write eloquent passages, particularly in reviewing arts performances, it seems a bit inappropriate in this instance. There is no such need for decorative articulation: this weekend of breakneck-speed play creation was just plain fun.

10 Minutes in 24 Hours.

2007-07-12T16:29:00.000-04:00

At 6:30 pm tonight, they will gather. Actors, writers, directors, techies: they will assemble in the Fondren neighborhood in Jackson to build a play festival from scratch. No scripts yet exist, no parts yet assigned, no sets yet constructed -- but the windows of local art galleries and cafes boast fliers publicizing a Saturday night showtime. In 48 hours, three as-yet un-conceived ten minute plays will take stage.

Welcome to Fondren Theatre Workshop's new Ten Minute Play Project.

Each of the three writers will be randomly matched with a director, a stage manager, and three actors. The three writers will be assigned three miscellaneous props or costume pieces, which must be incorporated into their ten minute script. Each script must begin with the word "stop," and must conclude with the word "start."

I am one of the three playwrights. Beginning at 6:30, I will have 24 hours to write a 10 minute play, which my director, actors, and stage manager will then have 25 hours to rehearse. I know the two other writers favor the comedic genre, so I have some freedom to perhaps descend into the dramatic. Maybe due to my introspection of late, I have an inexplicably keen awareness of being the sole female voice amidst the writers. I cannot escape this metaphor of nurturing this new script, creating a new life -- conception and delivery, all in one weekend. Although oddly enough, in any sort of baby-metaphor here, I guess all the writers, myself included, are more like the male partner: we contribute some raw material, the performers and stage crew finesse and develop it into something to share with the world. Maybe together we'll produce something wonderful.

The basic point is, we will produce something. I have to write tonight. I've committed. I'm in the playbill. The show goes up in two days, so there damn well better be a script cranked out by tomorrow night. The pressure is on...

... which is such a relief.

Sound counterintuitive? Not really. It's why, at least in theory, the strict setting of military school is often turned to for unruly children: sometimes we need structure to guide us in the right direction. In times tumultuous as these, I often find comfort in writing. Immersing myself in stories and settings of my own creation (or theft), imagined lives I can learn from and impact at my own discretion... these interactions help me feel less lonely. More empowered. What I am afraid to say or realize about my own life, I can delegate to my characters. Aside from my oft-belated posts on this blog, I have done so little writing lately. Perhaps the widening chasm can be halted tonight, as I write with purpose and deadline.

Expect a report on Sunday. I'm striving to meet all writing deadlines this week.

Independence Day

2007-07-04T18:21:00.000-04:00

People in coffee shops on holidays surely have stories.

There is a woman sitting a few tables away from me, a large black woman in bright cheerful hospital scrubs, light blue with garish yellow and pink shooting stars. She is cradling a cell phone between her shoulder and her ear, chuckling knowingly, a Dell laptop open in front of her and a large textbook resting on her lap. She is in her fifties. I imagine she is a returning student, possibly pursuing a nursing degree, just finished a shift at the medical center up the way and is preparing for her next examination. The person she is speaking with is maybe her daughter, a freshman at a college several states away, and they are commiserating about having to study on a holiday.

Beside her, one table over, there is a young white man in his twenties, scruffy hair, lazy beard and eyes too jaded for his face. He has a cup of coffee in front of him but has not touched it. Is his heart broken? Could be. Could be that the girl who was, until recently, his fiancee, his high school sweetheart, is out at a cookout with another man, throwing back her head and laughing to reveal huge white teeth with a distinguishing gap between the front two, holding a Bud Light in her hand and letting the other man catch her by the waist. It begins to rain outside the coffeeshop, and the pensive young man's mouth twitches, not quite a smile, but a little satisfaction: rain is bad news for people at a cookout. He reaches for the cup but still does not sip the coffee.

Outside on the patio, protected by a black-and-white striped awning, enjoying the sudden shower, sits an elderly man with a middle-aged woman. The elderly man is a librarian, gay and fastidious about topiary and household upkeep. My imagination is not running away with me this time- these facts are true, because I know him; he used to be a neighbor of mine, up until about two years ago, when I left for graduate school. He glances at me occasionally, because something about me is familiar, but he can't quite place me. I don't know the woman he is with. What if she is his daughter? What if he had this whole other life before he was my neurotic shrub-loving neighbor? On this holiday Wednesday, where is his male companion, and who is the woman taking his place?

The two men sitting behind me are loud, brash, both wearing solid gold wedding bands, going over blueprints for a house or an office. One man is clearly the client, one the architect. They are talking about foundations, pouring cement, deadlines for city inspections. This couldn't wait until tomorrow? Where are the wives indicated by the rings, the children each alludes to having? Perhaps one has a wife who recently left him, and he wants no one to know, so he keeps the ring, keeps his mouth shut, and keeps all appointments, in order to get out of his own empty, well-designed home. Perhaps the other is a workaholic, unable to meet during the workweek with an architect for something to be constructed in his personal life. Maybe his family is keeping hot dogs warming on a cooling grill, waiting for him to finally give a little bit of time over to them.

The most interesting table is all the way in the back, a family that looks lost or at some halfway point on a road trip, out of place, painfully stereotypically rural-Southern. They were standing in front of me when I waited to order my coffee. Two older women, one middle-aged woman, one middle aged man, and one little girl, ten at most. They are all dressed in red, white, and blue. The little old women whispered to each other the whole time, and paid jointly for their coffees but not for the younger set, though they are clearly all together. The middle aged couple seem to be married; they stumbled over the pronunciation of the fancy espresso drinks, and when the woman teased the man, he threatened to slap her, evoking more whispering from the little old ladies and a small shudder from the little girl. When they finally finished ordering and headed to their seats, the big comfy chairs in the back that I had been eying for myself, I could see that the little girl was clutching a Jonathan Kellerman novel to her chest, eagerly telling the old ladies about the latest plot twist as they ignored her, continuing to whisper to one another. My heart broke a little and I wanted to ask her to tell me more about what she's reading, ask her if she's read any of Faye Kellerman's books.

I wonder if any of these people are wondering about me - why I am so overdressed, a young woman by herself, sitting at a coffeeshop on Independence Day. I wonder if they can guess the histories I have created for them, the names and traits and stories I have assigned to them. I wonder if they think I am anything like any of them.

The truth is, I am like all of them. I recognize them all, and though I don't know their real stories, I feel as if I do. After all, we do have a few things in common. We all have stories. And we're all the sort of people you could find at a coffee shop on a holiday. Somehow, being here feels a little bit patriotic.... and now it's time for me to leave the cafe. Happy 4th of July.

Worth a thousand words, right?

2007-07-02T18:06:00.000-04:00

Due to travel and a hectic Monday schedule, the full Bethweek post will not appear until later tonight or tomorrow morning. For now, enjoy some lovely faces as a temporary substitute.

Letter to a Terrible Waitress

2007-06-25T11:40:00.000-04:00

Dear Terrible Waitress:

Waitressing is a stressful job. I say that with all sincerity - you're on your feet, having to be nice to people even when they're jerks, managing information, remembering orders and specials and faces, dealing with kitchen staff, dodging traffic... it can be a really tough gig.

I also understand the sexist stigma that comes with being a waitress as opposed to a waiter. Or at least, I do now, after doing a Google image search - when I searched for waiter, lots of charming clip-art surfaced immediately, featuring men in coattails carrying silver platters, smiling bus boys, and so on. When I plugged in waitress, several naked pictures turned up, along with ads for topless bars and strippers. (And the only word I was searching for was "waitress." That was it!) So I get it, and I'm sorry.

However.

You, sweetheart, you in particular, are just about the worst waitress imaginable.

First of all, when my friends and I are seated at the table, ready for you to take our drink order, you instead first spent no less than five minutes ranting to us about what bastards your last customers were, and how they didn't even leave you a tip. Initially, though a little weirded out by your over-the-top rant, you did have our sympathy.

Then, when we asked you what the specials on tap were, you didn't know. You had to go check. You took ten minutes to come back... and when you returned, you said "Oh, gosh y'all, I already forgot what all's on tap, it's so hard to remember! I do know we have Bud Light, or maybe it's Miller, or that other one?"

Like the nice (thirsty) patrons we are, we said anything was fine, really, and put in an order for an appetizer as well. Besides, tap lists change, sometimes it's hard to remember, no big deal.

Forget the fact that the appetizer didn't arrive until after the meal. Forget the fact that you got every salad dressing order wrong. I suppose we could blame the kitchen for those things; never know, it could be their fault. But these poor moves, I pin squarely on you:

Talking with the cute guys one table over for 15 minutes, after we gave you our order and before you turned it over to the kitchen.
Rolling your eyes when we asked where our appetizer was.
Calling me sugar, baby, sweetheart, while keeping your eyes fixed on the men.
Calling me sugar, baby, sweetheart, when you told me the kitchen was closing so you couldn't fix my mis-prepared order.
Calling me sugar, baby, sweetheart, though you are probably about 5-10 years younger than I am (and I am not generally so irritated by overly intimate terms of endearment from strangers, but you really overshot your quota).

These were all bad calls, but the last straw was when we were waiting for our check, and I went inside to find you, and I saw you sitting at the bar doing shots with some other patrons.

And when you saw me, you hid. Like literally, dropped the shot glass, ran into the kitchen, and hid there for another 10 minutes before you brought us our bill...

...and I'm such a sucker, that when you brought us the bill and singled me out as the perpetually sympathetic one and gave me the tear-jerker line about how it's your first night and you're so new and overwhelmed, I typically would have been guilted into leaving you a gigantic tip.

Except that you told me it was your first night the last time you were my waitress. At this restaurant. Six weeks ago. So, sugar, work up a new routine, or find a new job, baby, because you are really a terrible waitress. Sweetheart.

Follow up to this post, 6/26/2007: due to our first choice venue being closed, my friend Mac and I wound up back at TW's restaurant again last night. And of course, we were seated in TW's section. And of course, TW was, well, T. But I felt so guilty about venting online, anonymously as it was, that I left her a 20% tip this time. Mac nearly killed me.

Father's Day

2007-06-18T10:15:00.000-04:00

June 21, 1964: a Sunday. Three young civil rights activists journeyed to Neshoba County, Mississippi, to investigate the burning of Mt. Zion church, a gathering place for "the movement." James Chaney, a 21 year old black man, hailed from nearby Meridian, Mississippi. Michael Schwerner, a 24 year old white Jewish man, was a social worker, originally from New York, working for COFO out of Meridian. Andrew Goodman, a 20 year old white, Jewish college student, also from New York, had just completed training on strategies for working for black voter registration. He arrived in Meridian on June 20, ready to tackle the segregated South. June 21 was his first full day in Mississippi.

The three men visited the Mt. Zion ruins, then met with the local COFO group before heading back towards their Meridian base. Chaney, more familiar with the area than the two New Yorkers, was driving the blue Ford station wagon through the winding rural roads. Somewhere around 5pm, Chaney was pulled over, allegedly for speeding, and all three men were arrested and taken to the Neshoba County jail, where they were denied any phone calls.

The sweat that must have trickled down each back: Mississippi in late June, in the early sixties. Three civil rights workers, one black, two Jewish, all young and achingly idealistic, apprehended in one of the most notoriously racist areas of the country. No air conditioning. No equality. Local law enforcement violently protective of their right to white supremacy. Imagine the smell of salt and fear, the rising temperatures of both weather and men.

Probably much to their surprise, Chaney, Goodman, and Schwerner were released around 10 p.m. that day, permitted to return to their vehicle. They climbed into the Ford, navigated their way back to Highway 19, once again Meridian-bound, undoubtedly both angry and relieved at their capture and release, eager to leave Neshoba County.

Only they never were permitted to leave Neshoba. Chaney, Goodman, and Schwerner disappeared that night. On June 22, 1964, the charred remains of the blue Ford station wagon were found near Bogue Chitto swamp. Nearly a month and a half later, the remains of Chaney, Goodman and Schwerner were found buried in an earthen dam, fifteen feet deep, on a farm six miles outside of Philadelphia, Mississippi.

Justice did not reside in Mississippi in 1964. The brutal murders of three young men went virtually unpunished. As Ben Chaney, James' younger brother, noted in a 1999 speech, the many, many guilty conspirators were essentially slapped on the wrist:

"Three years after their murders, twenty-one Klansmen were arrested by the FBI, and on February 27, 1967, a federal grand jury for the Southern District of Mississippi indicted nineteen members of the White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan (White Knights) under Title 18, section 241, for conspiracy 'on or about January 1, 1964, and continuing to, on or about December 4, 1964, to injure, oppress, threaten, and intimidate Michael Henry Schwerner, James Earl Chaney, and Andrew Goodman.' A two-week federal trial in Meridian, Mississippi, resulted in seven guilty verdicts and sentences ranging from three to ten years."

It would be more than 40 years before anyone was convicted for the deaths of Chaney, Schwerner, and Goodman, rather than merely conspiring to "injure, oppress, threaten and intimidate them." In January of 2005, Edgar Ray Killen, a Neshoba County minister, was indicted by a Neshoba County grand jury for the murders of the three men -- and on June 21, 2005, exactly forty-one years after the three civil rights workers disappeared, Killen was convicted -- on three counts of manslaughter, not murder. Chaney, Schwerner, and Goodman were murdered.

Here in Jackson, Klansman James Ford Seale, was just convicted on two counts of kidnapping and one of conspiracy in connection with the 1964 murders of two black teenagers, Henry Hezekiah Dee and Charles Eddie Moore. Kidnapping and conspiracy, not murder. Dee and Moore were murdered.

Cases are difficult to try more than 40 years later, and the progress this state has made in the willingness to try, convict, and try to right old wrongs should not be overlooked. However, it's also a tricky balance between moving on and not losing our memory. There is something to be said for forgiveness. There is something to be said for honesty. There is still work to be done, and it is not any one person or group's responsibility to do the work. It is a collective imperative.

June 21, 1964, was the day James Chaney, Andrew Goodman, and Michael Schwerner were killed. June 21, 1964, was also Father's Day. All of these men died in their early twenties. One of them, Michael, left a young widow, Rita Schwerner, who continues to work for social justice. None lived long enough to experience fatherhood. On this Father's Day, June 17, 2007, I sat again in the sanctuary at Mt. Zion United Methodist Church in Philadelphia, Mississippi, where the three civil rights workers are memorialized each year. The crowd was smaller than it has been in years past; the 40th anniversary in 2004 was a huge media event, but after the big anniversary, and the subsequent conviction of Killen in 2005, the media has largely exited now. There are fewer cameras, and the story seemed less emphasized, even at the service. So I wanted to tell the story. On this Father's Day, what happened to these three young men should be clearly remembered -- and Chaney, Goodman, and Schwerner deserve to be remembered not only as martyrs to a cause, but also as true fathers of change.

This post is dedicated to my dad, Ken Kander. Happy Father's Day...
The information (details of timeline, convictions, etc) was gathered from the following sources: the program and service at Mt. Zion United Methodist Church, Philadelphia, MS; Wikipedia entry on "Mississippi Civil Rights Worker Murders;" Clarion Ledger and Jackson Free Press articles on the trial and convictions of Edgar Ray Killen and James Ford Seale; National Public Radio archives on Chaney, Schwerner, Goodman, Killen, and Seale; and a speech delivered by Ben Chaney to the American Bar Association in 1999.

Technical Difficulties

2007-06-11T10:01:00.001-04:00

Due to technical difficulties, this blog is being published on Monday rather than Sunday. I still have not had internet set up at my apartment, since I will be moving again this week, but there are several open networks I had been able to tap into... until last night. Suddenly, the friendly unencrypted network named "default" was gone, and had been replaced by an encrypted network called "CHRIST." Seriously. I ask you, what is the message in someone naming a network after their divine, and then closing it off to the rest of the world??

Due to the aforementioned technical difficulties, I scrapped the original posting I was working on (a nice warm-fuzzy one about working on a Peace House build in downtown Jackson) and have decided to focus instead on technical difficulties. This blog is supposed to transcend my own experience and attempt to probe the universal (nothing like a nice, easy goal), but this time I'm curious: is this a universal phenomenon? Does everyone have the same battle scars from strange tech wars that I do? Does anyone?

Technical, and specifically technological difficulties, have long been a theme in my life, and for this I blame my mother. My mother is certainly a more wounded soldier in the tech wars than I am. She has something that our family has dubbed the Personal Electro-Magnetic Forcefield, or PEMF. Due to her PEMF, my mom is something of a mutant. She has this bizarre, uncontrollable power to alter every clock she touches, any car she drives, any household appliance she so much as looks at. Maybe at one point I doubted the power of the PEMF, but I have been a believer for years now. When she inhabits their space, clocks literally stop working, people. She even made a microwave explode once.

As you might imagine, then, technical difficulties are pretty routine for our family. We long ago learned to just plan around mom's PEMF, by adopting some simple principles: if a drop of rain falls, the power will go out at my parents' house, so always have candles and flashlights. Expect frequent car breakdowns, so always have a cell phone and some high-calorie snacks in the trunk. Do not let her touch the DVD player.

The fear is now that I might have inherited the PEMF. Like an X-Man's mutant powers, it does not always manifest until early adulthood, and then suddenly, BAM: your physiological construction is just different, and you have to live with it. The evidence is mounting for the existence of my own PEMF. To highlight just a few indicators:

My car has seizures that the mechanics can't explain.
My cell phone sometimes calls me. (Seriously, sometimes the phone rings and when I answer it, it's my voicemail. And it was calling with a call-ring, not my voice-mail beep, and there are no new messages. I can't explain it.)
Wireless networks appear and disappear when I touch my Mac.
My Mac, a laptop I purchased due to the "Macs never crash" mantra invoked by all Macaholics, frequently crashes. And every time I re-start it, the time/date is set to 7pm Wednesday, December 3, 1969, so none of my programs will work until I correct the time/date. Every time.

There appears to be nothing I can do, so the goal now is to learn to master the PEMF. It has been suggested that if my mother were to go and hug all the nuclear bombs in the world, they would all be instantly disarmed. Perhaps her technical difficulty is the answer to world peace. Perhaps those of us who cannot help but move through life with technical difficulties should unite and learn to channel our strange little power.

Chew on that one the next time you can't program your DVD player.

Pomp & Circumstance

2007-06-03T12:18:00.000-04:00

My brother Adam graduated from college last week. (In probably the most anti-climactic attempt at a surprise ever, I didn't tell him that I was going to drive with my mom up from Mississippi to attend his commencement. Though delighted to see me, when I approached him "unexpectedly" at the campus coffee shop our family always seems to patronize, after giving me a big hug he shrugged and said "I sort of figured you'd be here.")

The day before his actual graduation, we attended campus functions - the student circus, an evening open-air quad festival with music and hundreds of multi-colored hanging Chinese lanterns, a surprise birthday party for a friend of his (including a pinata, whose contents were largely confiscated by random kids unknown to my brother and his friends). It was threatening rain all that day, and there were murmurs about what might happen if it rained on commencement day, since the exercises were all to take place outdoors. As it happened, the next morning the sun shone down brightly on the little campus.

It was a long but lovely ceremony, with many speakers. I was moved to tears by the main commencement speaker, who began with an apology to the class for the fact that their inheritance is a world at war. This was not the focal point of her speech, but it made me think- particularly when she mentioned a photo she had seen on the cover of the New York Times that morning of a war widow, a young woman the same age as the graduates sitting expectantly in their folding chairs that morning.

The comment lodged itself somewhere in my mind. In some idle Googling days later, thinking about commencement and the armed forces, I turned up the fact that "Pomp & Circumstance" is actually a military march. For some reason, though I'm sure I have heard that before, that little piece of information was jarring. So, this is how we traditionally mark the completion of an educational phase: we have the graduates parade before us to stirring military music. An appropriate metaphor might be, they march out as soldiers into the battlefield of life, adequately trained and well-quipped to emerge victorious, decorated officers. It still might be a bit of a pompous, war-glorifying metaphor, but I can see the poetry. Unfortunately, reality seems to steamroll pretty imagery. With little room to feel distant from the situation as my first cousin, a recent high school graduate, is currently in Air Force training, I can't help but wonder: how many of our young people will be heading not into similes of service, but actual service time?

I remember when I graduated from high school, there was a popular (and popularly ridiculed) recording by Baz Luhrman called "Wear Sunscreen." It began like this:

Ladies and gentleman of the class of 1999, wear sunscreen. If I could offer you only one tip for the future, sunscreen would be it. The long-term benefits of sunscreen have been proven by scientists, where the rest of my advice has no basis more reliable than my own meandering experience.

I swear I'm not always so dark, but as I commented to Adam, those lyrics are clearly dated. I envisioned a sort of gallows-humor comedy send-up, a modernization of the words:

Ladies and gentleman of the class of 2007, don't worry about the sunscreen. Between terrorists and global warming and avian flu and wars you may well have to personally fight in, the likelihood of the sun being the cause of your demise seems pretty slim to me. Consider yourself lucky if you wind up living long enough to get melanoma. Anyway, there's lots of money being dedicated to cancer research... right? Wait, what? Those funds are being diverted? Oh, well, like I said, forget about the sunscreen.

Don't panic, now - I am kidding, and that's supposed to be funny... it's just that it's also a little frightening. I understand that there are no easy answers, that safety and security, pride, peace, protection, pomp and circumstances are all confusing and conflicting values. I also keep seeing hope: the sort of small kindnesses that were the ultimate focus of the commencement speaker's address, the love and support that unexpectedly lifts us individually...

..and, they didn't play "Pomp & Circumstance" at my brother's graduation.

(This post is dedicated to Adam, who is a thinker, who appreciates gallows-humor, and who wouldn't have wanted me to post something sappy about how proud of him I am... but for the record, this big sister couldn't be prouder.)

Housekeeping Note Regarding Comments

2007-05-23T12:42:00.001-04:00

My apologies to people who tried to post comments and were told they couldn't without registering. I have changed the settings to enable non-users to comment. However, in an effort to prevent spam-comments, there will be a word-verification feature before posts will show up on the page. Due to the holiday weekend, the next post will be up either late-night Monday or early Tuesday. To all who have time off this week - enjoy!

Everything New is Old Again

2007-05-21T17:19:00.000-04:00

I recently donated many inches of hair to Beautiful Lengths. Though I was excited for the chop, it was still a bit of a shock. Clutching a small Aveda bag filled with what used to be my tresses, I looked at the new me in the mirror, and I hardly recognized her. Already feeling transitional and out of place, I bit my lip not to cry as the short-haired girl looked at me with her own glassy eyes and troubled frown. I decided that I hated, hated, hated the hair cut.

Like my look, everything has seemed strange and new of late. Now post-graduate school, in a new and exciting but wholly overwhelming job, in a new apartment, far from everyone I spent the last two years seeing on a regular basis, I find myself in search of the comforting and familiar. Though Jackson has been my home before, so many of my closest friends here have uprooted and replanted themselves in places far away. Everywhere I go I pass what used to Debbie and Alec's house, what used to be Jerry and Alex's house, where I used to live with Neola and Sam, where I used to live with Lydia and Amanda, where the sketchiest bar in Jackson used to be (it's now a sub sandwich shop - talk about a facelift). So many of the people and places that colored my life here are gone, or preparing to leave, or seem unlike themselves.

Okay, I thought. It's a new world. I have to be a new me. I have to grow into this haircut, not just wait for my hair to grow.

After I'd been here for two weeks, a friend came through town. She stopped by my office and gave me a huge hug.

"You look great!" She exclaimed.

"Really? Do you like the haircut?" I asked.

"Haircut?" She looked confused.

"Yeah... I just donated, like, a foot of hair."

She shrugged. "Huh. I didn't know your hair had gotten that long. I mean, you look just how you looked when I met you."

We chatted for another minute, and when she walked out of my office I thought about her nonchalant statement. It was true. When we first met, several years ago, it was right after I had chopped off ten inches of hair to donate to Locks of Love. I found a picture from five summers ago, the first time I moved down here. Appropriately enough, the photograph is a blurry and grainy scanned-in group shot, but still unmistakable. There was the face: a few years younger, but clearly the same girl, a girl with short dark hair and a slightly nervous look... and gradually, the realization came. I looked around and found the familiar in the unfamiliar, as everything new became old again. I'm not a new Beth - I just don't always recognize myself. I think that's one of the best contributions an old friend can make: reminding you that who you were is who you are, helping you re-learn how to cling to the best parts of yourself. Funny how we keep thinking that the scenery is changing, when sometimes it's just our own breath fogging the window and rendering the familiar obscure.

This new blog will not center around my life, but will be a weekly opportunity for some sort of commentary... but I thought for the first post, I would assure everyone that I am, in fact, doing all right (since I assume my current readership is primarily comprised of my parents). And incidentally? I have decided to love, love, love the new haircut...

...but I'm definitely going to grow it out again.

In a Holding Pattern

2007-04-11T11:17:00.001-04:00

BethWeek will debut in May 2007.