No Visible Bruises
Adult non fiction
I was engaged in 1984. It was the year between my college
graduation and my abortive first attempt at graduate school. We went
very quickly from meeting to relationship. On the surface we seemed
like a perfect pair. He was always taking me places and buying me
expensive gifts. He charmed my friends and family. But I saw a side
of him they didn't. He had a temper. It was never directed to me,
but I caught glimpses of it in stories he told me. He was jealous.
He didn't like me spending much time with anyone but him. He was
suspicious, always wanting to know who I was with or talking to on the
phone. I began to see red flags. I confronted him. He said his ex
had been unfaithful. That was why he had a hard time trusting me. I
could understand but felt that I deserved better. I advised him to
seek counseling to help him cope with his issues. I gave him three
months. If he hadn't at least tried I would break up. My friends and
family were shocked by my behavior. He was such a great guy and
obviously adored me. He'd never hurt me. We didn't last the three
months. He announced that he'd be buying us a house in New Hampshire
on a way out in the boonies lake. Here was one red flag too many--
isolation. He said I had a choice--him or graduate school. I chose
not him. He asked why. I said, "There are better ways to make the
6:00 news than being carted out in a body bag." I was sure going with
him would be a fatal mistake.
Over the years I've rarely thought about what became in
retrospect a minor chapter in my life, especially in the years I've
been married to a wonderful man. But when I read Rachel Louise
Snyder's No Visible Bruises: What We Don't Know About Domestic
Violence Can Kill Us it was like a punch to the gut. All those red
flags were not my imagination. Probably the only reason I got out of
that relationship was that I got out of it fast. If I'd given him the
second chance or additional time friends and family encouraged me to I
could have become enmeshed too much to break free. If I'd gone to the
boonies with him I would have become trapped by financial dependence.
That was back when domestic issues were considered private family
matters--nothing to do with crime. I so easily could have become one
of Snyder's cautionary tales.
"Domestic violence is like no other crime. It does not happen
in a vacuum. It does not happen because someone is in the wrong place
at the wrong time. Our homes and families are supposed to be sacred
territory, the "haven in a heartless world," as my college sociology
teacher drilled into me...This is part of what makes it so untenable.
It's violence from someone you know, from someone who claims to love
you..."
As Snyder begins the book she is visiting a guy named Paul
Monson. In 2001 his son-in-law, Rocky Mosure, bought a gun and took
it home. His wife, Michelle, had just fed their children, Kristy, 7,
and Kyle, 6. Rocky shot them all before taking his own life. Paul
was the one who found his loved ones That doomed family's story is a
strand interwoven through the book, tying together the various strands
of Snyder's narrative.
For one thing, there's the sheer magnitude of the problem.
"...Between 2000 and 2006 3,200 American soldiers were killed;
during that same period, domestic homicide in the United States
claimed 10,600 lives...Twenty people in the United States are
assaulted every minute by their partners. Former United Nations
Secretary-General Kofi Annan called violence against women and girls
the 'most shameful human rights violation' and the World Health
Organization called it a 'global health problem of epidemic
proportions.' A study put out by the United Nations Office on Drugs
and Crime cited fifty thousand women around the world were killed by
partners or family members in 2017 alone..."
At the same time as she lays these mind-numbing numbers on us,
Snyder makes them less abstract with plenty of narratives of people
very much like her readers only trapped in traumatic situations.
Bresha was a teen whose mother, Brandi, had been beaten her so badly
by her husband that she'd had injuries such as brain damage and broken
ribs. At one point Brandi was so damaged that the hospital had called
in a priest to administer last rites. There was a reprieve when
Brandi got a protective order and moved herself and her children out
of harm's eat. But when they dropped the order and moved back to
their tormenter it was too much for her daughter to cope with. At
fourteen Bresha used her father's gun to shoot him as he was sleeping.
Snyder invalidates many of the myths most of us have bought into
such as the idea that moving victims and their children into a
shelter, our default option in most places, is always a viable
solution. One she really shreds is the idea that if the situation was
that bad a woman would take her children and leave. Not only do
abusers often place their victims in situations of financial
dependency, but living with violence and volatility can actually
change brain functioning.
Although too many people, unfortunately including folks in
professions like law enforcement, are still operating by outmoded ways
in relation to domestic violence, many professionals all over the
country are researching the nuances of this crime and carrying out and
tweaking evidence based interventions. Snyder has done a lot of
travelling to bring readers these rays of hope in a dismal landscape.
I read this book because I'm in higher education, student
development. Unfortunately intimate violence is no stranger to college
campuses. The first group I'd reccomend No Visible Bruises to is
police, lawyers, policy makers, clergy, psychologists, teachers,
guidance counselors, social workers, clergy...basically anyone who
might encounter domestic violence victims and their children. The
second group is anyone with suspicions that a loved one is a victim.
On a purrrsonal note, Eugene and I did get to the in-laws' for turkey
day dinner. He got out of work at about noon and picked me up at
home. Amber and Brian dropped by in the afternoon but didn't stay til
dinner because they didn't want to be driving in the dark. The dinner
itself was good, especially the homemade blueberry pie. I got to
spend good time with my niece, Maggie, who will graduate college next
spring.
I made my own turkey dinner Friday. It came out well. But my heart
was aching. Joey loved turkey so much. It felt lonely not having him
to share with.
Mostly I've been burying myself in schoolwork and doing my best to
avoid Christmas music, Christmas ads, basically anything to do with
what's going to be my first Joeyless Christmas. There's only one gift
I want for Christmas. Doesn't look like it will happen. I don't
think Santa has cats at the North Pole. Old Town Animal Orphanage
hasn't found me one. I've heard Bangor Humane Society is short on
cats this year. If I had a car I would have driven out to
Androscoggin County Humane Society (wherever that is) because they
were at one point needing to home their resident cats in anticipation
of the arrival of 82 more.
A great big shout out goes out to the best little cat in the world who
loved me.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Saturday, November 30, 2019
Thursday, November 28, 2019
Raising The Bottom
Raising The Bottom
Adult nonfiction
With today being turkey day, we're at the beginning of the
holiday season. You know what that means. Shopping, decorating, more
shopping, family get togethers, parties, and drinking. A lot of
festivities involve drinking. Maybe there will be a little hard cider
or eggnog at family festivities. Football watching often involves
large quantities of beer. Parties tend to serve up adult beverages.
Even the frustrations of shopping in crowds and maybe not finding what
a child or spouse covets may motivate a before dinner cocktail or two
or more. And don't get me started on New Years Eve.
In a lot of these contexts it can be difficult to not partake.
Talk about peer pressure! Oh, come on! Don't be a party pooper/wet
blanket or whatever. Just one won't hurt...
...except that even one can. This is why Lisa Boucher's Raising
The Bottom: Making Mindful Choices in a Drinking Culture is a very
relevant read this time of year. Written for women who suspect they
may have drinking problems, it can also be a good choice for people
who suspect that a loved one has a drinking problem or that our
culture at large has a drinking problem.
My parents began seriously drinking in my teen years. My
father's alcoholism would have been easy to spot. When he drank he
binged. And that led to a lot of dumb, dangerous behavior. I am
truly blessed that on visitation days (the divorce thing) I didn't die
in a car crash. My mother's was a lot more subtle. Every night to
get to sleep she relied on three monks wine. And the amount it took
grew. I'm pretty sure after she retired and moved she ditched the
monks. But during my teen/young adult years they were a subtle
presence.
Boucher's mother was an alcoholic. The first chapter of Raising
The Bottom starts with this description of one of the many drunk
driving incidents her mother involved her in:
"Her foot never touched the brake. Even seconds before the
imminent impact, my mother looked serene: one hand draped over the
steering wheel, her glazed stare fixed on the road, rubbery lips
puffing on a Salem menthol like she had all the time in the world to
consider the options. She never flinched--not once--in spite of our
howls. The brown Chrysler barreled toward the crowded intersection at
forty miles per hour. The outcome was inevitable."
Can you imagine being in a situation like that? (I don't have
to imagine. I was in one in my much younger years. I was riding
shotgun in my emminently sober pastor's car on the way back from a
mountain climbing trip. I looked out my side window to see a car
barreling at us. I realized I very well could die. In fact the first
police officer to arrive at the scene said it was a miracle he wasn't
carting me away in a body bag. And you probably can guess what was on
the floor of the other car. Empty booze bottles. The driver was so
drunk he didn't realize he'd embedded his car in the side of another.)
That wasn't the only way that Boucher's mother's drinking impacted her
childhood. She and her siblings were frequently neglected. Her
father was angry, trying in vain to control his wife's problem
drinking. The predominant emotion of her childhood was fear.
But drinking was so routine that Boucher herself started on
booze and grass at the age of twelve. Not surprisingly she followed
in her mother's footsteps. In fact, her mother, who had sobered up
and devoted her life to helping other alcoholic women, was the one to
see that she had a problem and succesfully convince her that she
needed to do something about it.
Boucher had worked as a registered nurse in emergency rooms and
psych wards for twenty-three years before she decided to create the
book that her mother had urged her to write. She'd seen how clueless
doctors were in regard to women's dysfunctional drinking, how often
they blamed anything else for the crisis that brought them to the
hospital and left their damaged thought patterns intact.
"I've worked with hundreds of women over the years, and the
common thread is that most all women dubbed themselves social
drinkers, myself included, until we learned that there was nothing
social about the way we drank. In addition, most alcoholics are
functional and hold jobs--people don't realize that either."
In addition to the candid sharing of her own life story, Boucher
interviewed many other women who had dysfunctional drinking
experience. You can read about the dangerous and damaging judgement
errors they made while drunk (this should very much concern you where
some were drunk doctors) and the regrets they live with once sober.
There is plenty of good advice on how to recognize alcoholism and turn
things around if it's a problem in your life.
I strongly recommend the book because, even if alcoholism isn't
an issue for you and your loved ones we live in a society in denial
where people can laugh at social media portrayels of staggering drunk
women. As I read the book I saw a posted collection of funny bar
signs that were anything but funny. All of us need to be part of the
solution. So before we get far into this holiday season I want you to
make proactive plans.
1) If you probably will go to a social event where there will be
pressure to drink or to drink more than you can handle, what will you
do or say to stick with sensible intentions?
2) If you host an event at which alcohol will be an option, how will
you make sure that one of your guests will not crash a car on the way
home? How can you create an ambiance where over indulging is not
encouraged? Who will keep a relatively sober eye on the
interactions? If someone becomes drunk what will you do to keep them
off the road?
Wherever you are, if you hear someone being coaxed or bullied into
drinking too much or drinking at all what can you say or do? If you
hear someone making remarks that perpetuate the notion of problem
drinking being funny or harmless how can you avoid being a silent
bystander?
No, I'm not trying to be a wet blanket or party pooper. I just
want you and your loved ones to have a safe and really joyous holiday
season this year and every year. OK?
On a purrrsonal note, I'm being reminded that Mother Nature can veto
even the most carefully laid plans. We're in the middle of a snow
storm. I thought I'd leave the house at some ungodly hour to go to
the in-laws'. My husband got a call from work. He left at an ungodly
hour to go plow. My Katie is trying to decide whether it will be safe
for her to drive up from Portland. So I'm in my new Christmas pajamas
about to go back to studying for my theories class exam. When Joey
was alive being snowed in felt cozy. Now it feels cold and lonely,
like being on the other side of the moon.
Great big shout outs go out to you, my readers, with hopes that you
are having a safe and happy turkey day and to the best little cat in
the world who loved me.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Adult nonfiction
With today being turkey day, we're at the beginning of the
holiday season. You know what that means. Shopping, decorating, more
shopping, family get togethers, parties, and drinking. A lot of
festivities involve drinking. Maybe there will be a little hard cider
or eggnog at family festivities. Football watching often involves
large quantities of beer. Parties tend to serve up adult beverages.
Even the frustrations of shopping in crowds and maybe not finding what
a child or spouse covets may motivate a before dinner cocktail or two
or more. And don't get me started on New Years Eve.
In a lot of these contexts it can be difficult to not partake.
Talk about peer pressure! Oh, come on! Don't be a party pooper/wet
blanket or whatever. Just one won't hurt...
...except that even one can. This is why Lisa Boucher's Raising
The Bottom: Making Mindful Choices in a Drinking Culture is a very
relevant read this time of year. Written for women who suspect they
may have drinking problems, it can also be a good choice for people
who suspect that a loved one has a drinking problem or that our
culture at large has a drinking problem.
My parents began seriously drinking in my teen years. My
father's alcoholism would have been easy to spot. When he drank he
binged. And that led to a lot of dumb, dangerous behavior. I am
truly blessed that on visitation days (the divorce thing) I didn't die
in a car crash. My mother's was a lot more subtle. Every night to
get to sleep she relied on three monks wine. And the amount it took
grew. I'm pretty sure after she retired and moved she ditched the
monks. But during my teen/young adult years they were a subtle
presence.
Boucher's mother was an alcoholic. The first chapter of Raising
The Bottom starts with this description of one of the many drunk
driving incidents her mother involved her in:
"Her foot never touched the brake. Even seconds before the
imminent impact, my mother looked serene: one hand draped over the
steering wheel, her glazed stare fixed on the road, rubbery lips
puffing on a Salem menthol like she had all the time in the world to
consider the options. She never flinched--not once--in spite of our
howls. The brown Chrysler barreled toward the crowded intersection at
forty miles per hour. The outcome was inevitable."
Can you imagine being in a situation like that? (I don't have
to imagine. I was in one in my much younger years. I was riding
shotgun in my emminently sober pastor's car on the way back from a
mountain climbing trip. I looked out my side window to see a car
barreling at us. I realized I very well could die. In fact the first
police officer to arrive at the scene said it was a miracle he wasn't
carting me away in a body bag. And you probably can guess what was on
the floor of the other car. Empty booze bottles. The driver was so
drunk he didn't realize he'd embedded his car in the side of another.)
That wasn't the only way that Boucher's mother's drinking impacted her
childhood. She and her siblings were frequently neglected. Her
father was angry, trying in vain to control his wife's problem
drinking. The predominant emotion of her childhood was fear.
But drinking was so routine that Boucher herself started on
booze and grass at the age of twelve. Not surprisingly she followed
in her mother's footsteps. In fact, her mother, who had sobered up
and devoted her life to helping other alcoholic women, was the one to
see that she had a problem and succesfully convince her that she
needed to do something about it.
Boucher had worked as a registered nurse in emergency rooms and
psych wards for twenty-three years before she decided to create the
book that her mother had urged her to write. She'd seen how clueless
doctors were in regard to women's dysfunctional drinking, how often
they blamed anything else for the crisis that brought them to the
hospital and left their damaged thought patterns intact.
"I've worked with hundreds of women over the years, and the
common thread is that most all women dubbed themselves social
drinkers, myself included, until we learned that there was nothing
social about the way we drank. In addition, most alcoholics are
functional and hold jobs--people don't realize that either."
In addition to the candid sharing of her own life story, Boucher
interviewed many other women who had dysfunctional drinking
experience. You can read about the dangerous and damaging judgement
errors they made while drunk (this should very much concern you where
some were drunk doctors) and the regrets they live with once sober.
There is plenty of good advice on how to recognize alcoholism and turn
things around if it's a problem in your life.
I strongly recommend the book because, even if alcoholism isn't
an issue for you and your loved ones we live in a society in denial
where people can laugh at social media portrayels of staggering drunk
women. As I read the book I saw a posted collection of funny bar
signs that were anything but funny. All of us need to be part of the
solution. So before we get far into this holiday season I want you to
make proactive plans.
1) If you probably will go to a social event where there will be
pressure to drink or to drink more than you can handle, what will you
do or say to stick with sensible intentions?
2) If you host an event at which alcohol will be an option, how will
you make sure that one of your guests will not crash a car on the way
home? How can you create an ambiance where over indulging is not
encouraged? Who will keep a relatively sober eye on the
interactions? If someone becomes drunk what will you do to keep them
off the road?
Wherever you are, if you hear someone being coaxed or bullied into
drinking too much or drinking at all what can you say or do? If you
hear someone making remarks that perpetuate the notion of problem
drinking being funny or harmless how can you avoid being a silent
bystander?
No, I'm not trying to be a wet blanket or party pooper. I just
want you and your loved ones to have a safe and really joyous holiday
season this year and every year. OK?
On a purrrsonal note, I'm being reminded that Mother Nature can veto
even the most carefully laid plans. We're in the middle of a snow
storm. I thought I'd leave the house at some ungodly hour to go to
the in-laws'. My husband got a call from work. He left at an ungodly
hour to go plow. My Katie is trying to decide whether it will be safe
for her to drive up from Portland. So I'm in my new Christmas pajamas
about to go back to studying for my theories class exam. When Joey
was alive being snowed in felt cozy. Now it feels cold and lonely,
like being on the other side of the moon.
Great big shout outs go out to you, my readers, with hopes that you
are having a safe and happy turkey day and to the best little cat in
the world who loved me.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Wednesday, November 27, 2019
Why Our Health Matters
Why Our Health Matters
Adult nonfiction
"I believe strongly and passionately that every American has a
right to good health care that is effective, accessible, and that
serves you from infancy through old age, that allows you to go to
practitioners and facilities of your choosing and that offers a wide
range of therapeutic options. Your health-care system should also
help you stay in optimal health, not just take care of you when you
are sick or injured. You should expect and demand this of your
country, whether you are rich or poor and whatever the circumstances
in which you live. A free democratic society must guarantee basic
health care to its citizens--all of them--just as it guarantees them
basic security and safety. It is in a society's best interests to do
so: the healthier our population, the stronger and more productive we
will be as a nation."
Andrew Weil, author of Why Our Health Matters in which I found
the above manifesto, says that America is about as far from that
society as we can get. In fact he argues that we have a "disease
management," rather than a health care system. Our collective health
is going down the drain. No other democratic society has so many
uninsured citizens. In other words, we're spending more on health
care than other democracies and getting crappier results.
Weil believes that we don't try to trade our system of disease
management in for one of health maintenance because of three prevalent
myths.
"Myth #1: Because America has the most expensive health care in the
world, it must have the best...
Myth #2: Our medical technology is our single greatest asset.
Myth #3: Our medical schools and research facilities excel at
creating the world's finest physicians and most productive medical
investigators."
He deconstructs those myths and shows the many dangers of believing
them and remaining complacent.
One of Weil's biggest themes is the emphasis on pharmaceuticals
and procedures at the expense of primary interventions at the personal
and societal level. Most doctors, for example, know little or nothing
about nutrition, never mind the effects of environmental factors on
our bodies. It's more a reflexive hear the symptoms and prescribe a
pill.
I can share just two of the examples from my life that truly
pissed me off. In the first I had a middle ear infection. The doctor
decided I needed some kind of steroid to clear it up. She handed me
this multipage list of alarming side effects. Additionally, since
I've never had steroids in my life we had no idea how my body would
react to them. When I asked what would happen if I didn't take the
pills she explained that I'd have to stay in bed for two days and was
genuinely perplexed when I chose that option. In the second I had had
oral surgery. The dentist insisted that I needed a strong pain killer
even though I was pregnant with Adam in a stage of delicate neural
developement. I opted to just say no. He said I wouldn't be able to
stand the pain. I managed just fine on a light weight over the
counter. Adam aced his Apgar.
Fortunately Weil doesn't leave us with just the doom and gloom
scenario. He shows us what a true health enhancement system would
look like and how our society must change in order to achieve it. He
doesn't want pills and procedures totally eliminated. If you have
appendicitis he wants you to get right over to a hospital and have the
dangerously malfunctioning organ removed. He just wants them to
become less necessary in a society where we are taught to make healthy
life style choices and are actually enabled to so so. Think no more
food deserts. If you want to enjoy better health and/or help create
the change we need to see in America you'll find Why Our Health
Matters to be a must read.
On a purrrsonal note, Thursday I had a beautiful dream about Joey
cat. He actually hadn't died and we would have a happy holiday
season. Of course I woke up.
I did something super dumb Saturday. Eugene had just given me a lock
for my work locker. I locked my keys in my backpack in the locker.
Campus police had to cut the lock off.
I'm on my first day of turkey day (I no longer celebrate Thanksgiving
since reading Dawnland voices) vaca. This morning I made a Goodwill
run to take advantage of the 50% off sale. I got Christmas onesie
pajamas and 3 shirts for only $9. Most of my vaca will be devoted to
writing a paper and studying for my theories final. Tomorrow will be
all day at the in-laws' while Eugene hunts. I will pack a stack of
books to read and ear plugs to screen out tv noise and stay in my own
zone til supper.
However you celebrate (or don't celebrate) turkey day stay warm and
safe and have a great time.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Adult nonfiction
"I believe strongly and passionately that every American has a
right to good health care that is effective, accessible, and that
serves you from infancy through old age, that allows you to go to
practitioners and facilities of your choosing and that offers a wide
range of therapeutic options. Your health-care system should also
help you stay in optimal health, not just take care of you when you
are sick or injured. You should expect and demand this of your
country, whether you are rich or poor and whatever the circumstances
in which you live. A free democratic society must guarantee basic
health care to its citizens--all of them--just as it guarantees them
basic security and safety. It is in a society's best interests to do
so: the healthier our population, the stronger and more productive we
will be as a nation."
Andrew Weil, author of Why Our Health Matters in which I found
the above manifesto, says that America is about as far from that
society as we can get. In fact he argues that we have a "disease
management," rather than a health care system. Our collective health
is going down the drain. No other democratic society has so many
uninsured citizens. In other words, we're spending more on health
care than other democracies and getting crappier results.
Weil believes that we don't try to trade our system of disease
management in for one of health maintenance because of three prevalent
myths.
"Myth #1: Because America has the most expensive health care in the
world, it must have the best...
Myth #2: Our medical technology is our single greatest asset.
Myth #3: Our medical schools and research facilities excel at
creating the world's finest physicians and most productive medical
investigators."
He deconstructs those myths and shows the many dangers of believing
them and remaining complacent.
One of Weil's biggest themes is the emphasis on pharmaceuticals
and procedures at the expense of primary interventions at the personal
and societal level. Most doctors, for example, know little or nothing
about nutrition, never mind the effects of environmental factors on
our bodies. It's more a reflexive hear the symptoms and prescribe a
pill.
I can share just two of the examples from my life that truly
pissed me off. In the first I had a middle ear infection. The doctor
decided I needed some kind of steroid to clear it up. She handed me
this multipage list of alarming side effects. Additionally, since
I've never had steroids in my life we had no idea how my body would
react to them. When I asked what would happen if I didn't take the
pills she explained that I'd have to stay in bed for two days and was
genuinely perplexed when I chose that option. In the second I had had
oral surgery. The dentist insisted that I needed a strong pain killer
even though I was pregnant with Adam in a stage of delicate neural
developement. I opted to just say no. He said I wouldn't be able to
stand the pain. I managed just fine on a light weight over the
counter. Adam aced his Apgar.
Fortunately Weil doesn't leave us with just the doom and gloom
scenario. He shows us what a true health enhancement system would
look like and how our society must change in order to achieve it. He
doesn't want pills and procedures totally eliminated. If you have
appendicitis he wants you to get right over to a hospital and have the
dangerously malfunctioning organ removed. He just wants them to
become less necessary in a society where we are taught to make healthy
life style choices and are actually enabled to so so. Think no more
food deserts. If you want to enjoy better health and/or help create
the change we need to see in America you'll find Why Our Health
Matters to be a must read.
On a purrrsonal note, Thursday I had a beautiful dream about Joey
cat. He actually hadn't died and we would have a happy holiday
season. Of course I woke up.
I did something super dumb Saturday. Eugene had just given me a lock
for my work locker. I locked my keys in my backpack in the locker.
Campus police had to cut the lock off.
I'm on my first day of turkey day (I no longer celebrate Thanksgiving
since reading Dawnland voices) vaca. This morning I made a Goodwill
run to take advantage of the 50% off sale. I got Christmas onesie
pajamas and 3 shirts for only $9. Most of my vaca will be devoted to
writing a paper and studying for my theories final. Tomorrow will be
all day at the in-laws' while Eugene hunts. I will pack a stack of
books to read and ear plugs to screen out tv noise and stay in my own
zone til supper.
However you celebrate (or don't celebrate) turkey day stay warm and
safe and have a great time.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Thursday, November 21, 2019
What Do You Do With A Voice Like That?
What Do You Do With A Voice Like That?
Juvenile herstory
"'My faith in the Constitution is whole, it is complete, it is
total. And I am not going to sit here and be an idle spectator to the
diminuation, the subversion, the destruction of the Constitution.'
The Constitution, Barbara said, must be preserved.
The president, Barbara said, must go."
Any of us who were around for Watergate would agree that Barbara
Jordan had a big voice. Now children and reading aloud parents are
introduced to this bold congressperson in What Do You Do With A Voice
Like That? which pairs Chris Barton's words with Ekua Holmes' rich,
collage like illustrations.
Jordan had a much harder path than most people knew. In 1973
she got the devastating diagnosis of multiply sclerosis. I'm sure
back then treatment was much less state of the art than it is today.
Even as she transitioned from cane to walker to wheel chair she served
three terms in Congress and taught public policy and ethics to
graduate students for 17 years. She taught until she died of multiple
sclerosis, leukemia, and pneumonia.
In 1976 at the Democratic National Convention Jordan made the
keynote speech and made this prescient statement:
"A spirit of harmony will survive in America only if each of us
remembers that we share a common destiny; if each of us remembers,
when self interest and bitterness seem to prevail, that we share a
common destiny. I have confidence that we can form this kind of
national community."
In today's America where the greed of the few at the top dooms
so many of the rest of us the common destiny based community would
seem to be the only way we can collectively survive and thrive. It
will take all our big, small, and medium sized voices to make this
happen.
On a purrrsonal note, I had a kind of crappy day yesterday. I was
seriously missing Joey because I was telling some friends how, knowing
he wouldn't be with us when Thanksgiving rolled around, I gave him his
last Thanksgiving in June. He loved every moment of turkey prep.
Calendar Thanksgiving will remind me so much of him. Honestly I just
want to stay home in my pajamas that day and read and not handle all
the image control at the in-laws where I'll be all day while Eugene is
deer hunting. But I don't have the energy for that battle.
Then later I went to a presentation by two indiginous people. After a
few people and I were talking to one of them. She kept alluding to
young people and old people. When I asked her to please not treat age
as a binary it turns out that in her culture it is. Like "old" people
all have wisdom because we've had more experiences. Which is total
bullshit. I mean unless you consider "Build a wall" and "Make America
great again" to be pearls of wisdom. Plus I don't want to be trapped
in a stereotyped role based on the least significant facet of my
life. I am as multifaceted and intersectional as anyone. My feelings
inside were like a fire when someone pours on kerosene. I was so
angry I was beyond speech. So I quietly left the room. Now when I
see indiginous friends and acquaintances I'll wonder if they see the
real me or just some indigenous stereotype.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Juvenile herstory
"'My faith in the Constitution is whole, it is complete, it is
total. And I am not going to sit here and be an idle spectator to the
diminuation, the subversion, the destruction of the Constitution.'
The Constitution, Barbara said, must be preserved.
The president, Barbara said, must go."
Any of us who were around for Watergate would agree that Barbara
Jordan had a big voice. Now children and reading aloud parents are
introduced to this bold congressperson in What Do You Do With A Voice
Like That? which pairs Chris Barton's words with Ekua Holmes' rich,
collage like illustrations.
Jordan had a much harder path than most people knew. In 1973
she got the devastating diagnosis of multiply sclerosis. I'm sure
back then treatment was much less state of the art than it is today.
Even as she transitioned from cane to walker to wheel chair she served
three terms in Congress and taught public policy and ethics to
graduate students for 17 years. She taught until she died of multiple
sclerosis, leukemia, and pneumonia.
In 1976 at the Democratic National Convention Jordan made the
keynote speech and made this prescient statement:
"A spirit of harmony will survive in America only if each of us
remembers that we share a common destiny; if each of us remembers,
when self interest and bitterness seem to prevail, that we share a
common destiny. I have confidence that we can form this kind of
national community."
In today's America where the greed of the few at the top dooms
so many of the rest of us the common destiny based community would
seem to be the only way we can collectively survive and thrive. It
will take all our big, small, and medium sized voices to make this
happen.
On a purrrsonal note, I had a kind of crappy day yesterday. I was
seriously missing Joey because I was telling some friends how, knowing
he wouldn't be with us when Thanksgiving rolled around, I gave him his
last Thanksgiving in June. He loved every moment of turkey prep.
Calendar Thanksgiving will remind me so much of him. Honestly I just
want to stay home in my pajamas that day and read and not handle all
the image control at the in-laws where I'll be all day while Eugene is
deer hunting. But I don't have the energy for that battle.
Then later I went to a presentation by two indiginous people. After a
few people and I were talking to one of them. She kept alluding to
young people and old people. When I asked her to please not treat age
as a binary it turns out that in her culture it is. Like "old" people
all have wisdom because we've had more experiences. Which is total
bullshit. I mean unless you consider "Build a wall" and "Make America
great again" to be pearls of wisdom. Plus I don't want to be trapped
in a stereotyped role based on the least significant facet of my
life. I am as multifaceted and intersectional as anyone. My feelings
inside were like a fire when someone pours on kerosene. I was so
angry I was beyond speech. So I quietly left the room. Now when I
see indiginous friends and acquaintances I'll wonder if they see the
real me or just some indigenous stereotype.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Childbirth
Childbirth
When I saw two books on childbirth in a new nonfiction display
at Orono Public Library my reaction was, "Been there, done that, no
thanks." Between tubal ligation and menopause, my reproductive years
are a mostly happy memory. But then someone important in my life told
me her wife is expecting. So next thing I knew I was back to the
library to check the books out. It would be a good idea to see if
either or both could help them through one of life's most exhilerating
and terrifying experiences.
January Harshe's Birth Without Fear is the book I most wish had
been published 30 years ago when I was carrying Amber. There were
books on childbirth back then. But the medical model was the lens
through which all things pregnancy related were seen. Doctors were
Gods who gave or refused you permission to do anything. People
hadn't gotten around to asking, "Whose body is this, anyways?" And if
you ended up with a Cesarean, either, planned or emergency, or bottle
fed, even with a legitimate medical reason like Cesarean mandated
opiates polluting your breast milk, there was a special ring in Hell
reserved for you.
Harshe, mother of six, puts self authorship within the context
of procreating. This is your baby and your body. You interview your
care provider(s) to find those whose beliefs and practices are most
congruent with what you want from your pregnancy and birth
experience. [There is a great list of potential provider questions.]
You can fire them if the relationship starts getting incompatible.
You put thought into where and under what conditions you want to give
birth and how you can handle alternatives that may become necessary.
You decide who you don't want to be there, say someone who might bring
negativity and fear as unwanted baggage to the event, even if that
person is your mother.
Harshe urges you to have confidence in your self and your
capabilities. Well meaning family members, friends, and even
strangers will have unsolicited opinions on whether you're putting too
little or too much weight. And heaven forbid they catch you with
fries and a soda even if it's what your morning (or all day) sick body
will keep down. Feel free to ignore them. Take care of yourself in
the individual ways you need to, not just in generic formulas laid
down by books. Don't be afraid to ask for help--from people who will
respect your agency.
Harshe's six children arrived under a wide range of
circumstances, some involving last minute medically mandated changes.
She starts the second section of the book by declaring: "I do not care
what kind of birth you have...a home birth, scheduled cesarean,
epidural hospital birth, or if you birth alone in the woods next to a
baby deer. I care that you have options, that you are supported in
your choices, and that you are respected." Here are the chapters that
go into great detail about a range of options [except not the baby
deer one or the very real but rare occassion where baby arrives too
fast and a firefighter takes on the doctor role with no time to
compare philosophies]. It's amazing, for example how many options for
agency a c section can provide such as no sedatives for the mother
after birth, skin-to-skin bonding time, and viewing the delivery.
Harshe urges even mothers who are sure they'll go with one option to
read all the chapters because, as I can second from personal
experience, you never really know.
There are also some pretty awesome post partum chapters,
including the one on sex and intimacy.
The paperback price makes this book a total bargain and a great
investment.
My Caesarean, edited by Amanda Fields and Rachel Moritz, may be
a more controversial recommendation. But I'll stand by it. A
substantial number of babies have surgical births. A lot of women do
all the right things throughout pregnancy only to run up against a
wall. Statistics back up what I learned through personal experience.
Actually I wish I had had the book during the last two months of my
first pregnancy when a fast growing baby in a very small boned body
made a vaginal birth seem increasingly unlikely. All I knew was that
a c section involved surgery. There was no mention of anything
related to emotions, interpersonal dynamics, or ways to have agency
within the context of a surgical delivery. Before my first one I had
never read or heard a c section story or met anyone who would admit to
having done what, to many, was a cardinal sin.
My Caesarean changes all that. It contains the stories of
twenty-one women who delivered by caesarean. As it says in the
Editors' note,
"...Those of us who have brought children into the world this
way have had wildly different experiences and reactions. For some,
the caesarean is welcomed as a choice or necessity. Others carry
ambivolance or trauma about the surgery. A new mother is often told
to focus on the outcome of a healthy baby and given little information
about her own physical recovery."
The stories contained in the book are intimate and personal,
told in a wide range of strong and wise voices. People new to
surgical delivery may very well find advice that helps with their own
deliveries. Two decades past my children's births I was deeply
touched by reading of women who had had experiences like mine and
saddened that it had taken two decades to find them.
My favorite story was Upside Down by Mary Pen. After years of
delivering other women's babies, she was pregnant with a baby in the
wrong position for a vaginal delivery. When she was patient instead
of provider her perspective altered drastically.
"...My own mother had three quick vaginal births, ushering my
two brothers and me into this world in record time. It never occurred
to me that I might have a complication, an aberrancy that might lead
to an alternate birthing path. I became irrational, a physician who
put aside all she knew in scientific fact in favor of anecdotes,
hearsay, lore."
In The Emperor's Cut Elizabeth Noll reminds us of a sobering
reality. Women have unequal access to the procedure. While wealthy
women can access it for sometimes trivial reasons, poor women don't
often have a chance, even to save their lives and those of their
babies. In 2014 3.18 million needed c sections were not performed.
The World Health Organization has gone from recommending 15% to
stating that "Every method should be made to provide caesarean
sections to women in need, rather than striving to achieve a certain
rate."
I found a real pearl of wisdom in Sara Bates' When Expectations
Go Up in Flames. Bates reminds us that women become mothers in a
gradual process resembling the velveteen rabbit becoming real rather
than passing or flunking a birthing exam.
"...Motherhood is something that happens to a woman, not all at
once, but with each lullaby and goodnight kiss. And it takes a long
time...A woman becomes a mother not in the wake of the grandeur of her
child's birth, but during the accumulation of the small moments of
adoration and the short, explosive moments of aggravation."
This book also is an affordable paperback.
I recommend both not only for pregnant women but for the
partners, families, and friends who love them.
On a very purrrsonal note, all three of my children were born by C-
section. I'm extremely small boned. I carried big babies. The month
before Amber was born the ligaments holding my ribs in place had
stretched so far sneezing created stabbing pain. I tried for a
vaginal delivery. After 16 hours in labor my blood pressure went down
so fast they had to go with general anaesthetic and cut. My last
words before going under were, "If he (my husband who loves fishing)
thinks it's too small don't let him throw it back in." Matters got
complicated when I almost died from a post surgical infection. The
nurses bet they would never see me again.
I planned on a vaginal birth with Katie. Her surgical delivery
wasn't set in motion until she grew too big. Amazingly I entered the
hospital exuberant rather than fearful. I recognized the nurse who
prepped me as one of the ones who made the bet and said, "Surprise,
surprise! I'm here." This time I was awake and Eugene was present.
The next morning a nurse explained why I should at least try to walk
to the bathroom. Piece of cake! I then scared the nurse by walking
down the hall to take a look at Katie.
I tried with Adam. I had a lot of help with that pregnancy.
I'd had a miscarriage and a medically necessary abortion in the
intervening years. Amber had decided that while pregnancy wasn't what
she wanted for me, now that the baby was real she wanted it to live.
She informed her first grade teacher that she was going to all my
doctor appointments. (In fact her teacher and her teacher's best
friend came over every Saturday to clean my house for free, bringing
breakfast pastries and happy meals for lunch.) She paid close
attention and made sure we had all the recommended foods and played
with Katie so I could rest. When a C-section became necessary she
interviewed the doctor, asking hard ball questions such as how many C-
sections he'd performed, what percent of the mothers and babies had
lived, and whether he planned on a general or local anaesthetic.
Adam's birth was even more exciting because I was offered a
mirror to watch the moment of birth. I told the operating team to set
the mirror up so I could watch it all from incisions to stitches.
They did with misgivings. I found it fascinating. The next morning I
woke up to music from an adjoining room. When the macareno came on I
slipped out of bed and started dancing. A nurse came running in to
ask what the Hell I was doing. I said, well the doctor said I should
try to exercise. She said that meant dangling my feet over the side
of the bed. Maybe he could have been more explicit.
I have one bit of hard won advice for pregnant women. Trust
your thoughts and feelings even if they conflict with those of
doctors. That saved my life. Literally. The second day after
Amber's birth I knew that I had an infection. When the doctor on
rounds came by with his doctorlings I mentioned this and asked him to
have a nurse take my vitals. He said it was my imagination and
commented to the doctorlings about first time mothers. The second
they left I buzzed for the nurse and insisted that I was right. I was
burning up with fever. In a matter of moments I was hooked up to
intravenous antibiotics. I almost died. Before I left the place I
was told that if I had done what we are taught to do--obeyed the
doctor--Eugene would have been widowed, Amber half orphaned, and Katie
and Adam never conceived.
Trusting my thoughts and feelings also steeled me from being
guilted into second guessing, regrets, and depression by vaginal
birth supremicists. I got plenty of hate. For instance I had just
arrived in my room after Adam's birth when my roommate's mother was
screaming at me for being a lazy bitch and taking the easy way out
while her real woman daughter did the right thing. My baby in the
nursery had scored aced the Apgar and I would leave in my husband's
truck, not a hearse. Nothing else mattered.
Great big shout outs go out to the women who are on the beautiful
journey of bringing a human being into the world and their partners
and other allies and to my three incredible adult children who are my
legacy and my gift to the world.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
When I saw two books on childbirth in a new nonfiction display
at Orono Public Library my reaction was, "Been there, done that, no
thanks." Between tubal ligation and menopause, my reproductive years
are a mostly happy memory. But then someone important in my life told
me her wife is expecting. So next thing I knew I was back to the
library to check the books out. It would be a good idea to see if
either or both could help them through one of life's most exhilerating
and terrifying experiences.
January Harshe's Birth Without Fear is the book I most wish had
been published 30 years ago when I was carrying Amber. There were
books on childbirth back then. But the medical model was the lens
through which all things pregnancy related were seen. Doctors were
Gods who gave or refused you permission to do anything. People
hadn't gotten around to asking, "Whose body is this, anyways?" And if
you ended up with a Cesarean, either, planned or emergency, or bottle
fed, even with a legitimate medical reason like Cesarean mandated
opiates polluting your breast milk, there was a special ring in Hell
reserved for you.
Harshe, mother of six, puts self authorship within the context
of procreating. This is your baby and your body. You interview your
care provider(s) to find those whose beliefs and practices are most
congruent with what you want from your pregnancy and birth
experience. [There is a great list of potential provider questions.]
You can fire them if the relationship starts getting incompatible.
You put thought into where and under what conditions you want to give
birth and how you can handle alternatives that may become necessary.
You decide who you don't want to be there, say someone who might bring
negativity and fear as unwanted baggage to the event, even if that
person is your mother.
Harshe urges you to have confidence in your self and your
capabilities. Well meaning family members, friends, and even
strangers will have unsolicited opinions on whether you're putting too
little or too much weight. And heaven forbid they catch you with
fries and a soda even if it's what your morning (or all day) sick body
will keep down. Feel free to ignore them. Take care of yourself in
the individual ways you need to, not just in generic formulas laid
down by books. Don't be afraid to ask for help--from people who will
respect your agency.
Harshe's six children arrived under a wide range of
circumstances, some involving last minute medically mandated changes.
She starts the second section of the book by declaring: "I do not care
what kind of birth you have...a home birth, scheduled cesarean,
epidural hospital birth, or if you birth alone in the woods next to a
baby deer. I care that you have options, that you are supported in
your choices, and that you are respected." Here are the chapters that
go into great detail about a range of options [except not the baby
deer one or the very real but rare occassion where baby arrives too
fast and a firefighter takes on the doctor role with no time to
compare philosophies]. It's amazing, for example how many options for
agency a c section can provide such as no sedatives for the mother
after birth, skin-to-skin bonding time, and viewing the delivery.
Harshe urges even mothers who are sure they'll go with one option to
read all the chapters because, as I can second from personal
experience, you never really know.
There are also some pretty awesome post partum chapters,
including the one on sex and intimacy.
The paperback price makes this book a total bargain and a great
investment.
My Caesarean, edited by Amanda Fields and Rachel Moritz, may be
a more controversial recommendation. But I'll stand by it. A
substantial number of babies have surgical births. A lot of women do
all the right things throughout pregnancy only to run up against a
wall. Statistics back up what I learned through personal experience.
Actually I wish I had had the book during the last two months of my
first pregnancy when a fast growing baby in a very small boned body
made a vaginal birth seem increasingly unlikely. All I knew was that
a c section involved surgery. There was no mention of anything
related to emotions, interpersonal dynamics, or ways to have agency
within the context of a surgical delivery. Before my first one I had
never read or heard a c section story or met anyone who would admit to
having done what, to many, was a cardinal sin.
My Caesarean changes all that. It contains the stories of
twenty-one women who delivered by caesarean. As it says in the
Editors' note,
"...Those of us who have brought children into the world this
way have had wildly different experiences and reactions. For some,
the caesarean is welcomed as a choice or necessity. Others carry
ambivolance or trauma about the surgery. A new mother is often told
to focus on the outcome of a healthy baby and given little information
about her own physical recovery."
The stories contained in the book are intimate and personal,
told in a wide range of strong and wise voices. People new to
surgical delivery may very well find advice that helps with their own
deliveries. Two decades past my children's births I was deeply
touched by reading of women who had had experiences like mine and
saddened that it had taken two decades to find them.
My favorite story was Upside Down by Mary Pen. After years of
delivering other women's babies, she was pregnant with a baby in the
wrong position for a vaginal delivery. When she was patient instead
of provider her perspective altered drastically.
"...My own mother had three quick vaginal births, ushering my
two brothers and me into this world in record time. It never occurred
to me that I might have a complication, an aberrancy that might lead
to an alternate birthing path. I became irrational, a physician who
put aside all she knew in scientific fact in favor of anecdotes,
hearsay, lore."
In The Emperor's Cut Elizabeth Noll reminds us of a sobering
reality. Women have unequal access to the procedure. While wealthy
women can access it for sometimes trivial reasons, poor women don't
often have a chance, even to save their lives and those of their
babies. In 2014 3.18 million needed c sections were not performed.
The World Health Organization has gone from recommending 15% to
stating that "Every method should be made to provide caesarean
sections to women in need, rather than striving to achieve a certain
rate."
I found a real pearl of wisdom in Sara Bates' When Expectations
Go Up in Flames. Bates reminds us that women become mothers in a
gradual process resembling the velveteen rabbit becoming real rather
than passing or flunking a birthing exam.
"...Motherhood is something that happens to a woman, not all at
once, but with each lullaby and goodnight kiss. And it takes a long
time...A woman becomes a mother not in the wake of the grandeur of her
child's birth, but during the accumulation of the small moments of
adoration and the short, explosive moments of aggravation."
This book also is an affordable paperback.
I recommend both not only for pregnant women but for the
partners, families, and friends who love them.
On a very purrrsonal note, all three of my children were born by C-
section. I'm extremely small boned. I carried big babies. The month
before Amber was born the ligaments holding my ribs in place had
stretched so far sneezing created stabbing pain. I tried for a
vaginal delivery. After 16 hours in labor my blood pressure went down
so fast they had to go with general anaesthetic and cut. My last
words before going under were, "If he (my husband who loves fishing)
thinks it's too small don't let him throw it back in." Matters got
complicated when I almost died from a post surgical infection. The
nurses bet they would never see me again.
I planned on a vaginal birth with Katie. Her surgical delivery
wasn't set in motion until she grew too big. Amazingly I entered the
hospital exuberant rather than fearful. I recognized the nurse who
prepped me as one of the ones who made the bet and said, "Surprise,
surprise! I'm here." This time I was awake and Eugene was present.
The next morning a nurse explained why I should at least try to walk
to the bathroom. Piece of cake! I then scared the nurse by walking
down the hall to take a look at Katie.
I tried with Adam. I had a lot of help with that pregnancy.
I'd had a miscarriage and a medically necessary abortion in the
intervening years. Amber had decided that while pregnancy wasn't what
she wanted for me, now that the baby was real she wanted it to live.
She informed her first grade teacher that she was going to all my
doctor appointments. (In fact her teacher and her teacher's best
friend came over every Saturday to clean my house for free, bringing
breakfast pastries and happy meals for lunch.) She paid close
attention and made sure we had all the recommended foods and played
with Katie so I could rest. When a C-section became necessary she
interviewed the doctor, asking hard ball questions such as how many C-
sections he'd performed, what percent of the mothers and babies had
lived, and whether he planned on a general or local anaesthetic.
Adam's birth was even more exciting because I was offered a
mirror to watch the moment of birth. I told the operating team to set
the mirror up so I could watch it all from incisions to stitches.
They did with misgivings. I found it fascinating. The next morning I
woke up to music from an adjoining room. When the macareno came on I
slipped out of bed and started dancing. A nurse came running in to
ask what the Hell I was doing. I said, well the doctor said I should
try to exercise. She said that meant dangling my feet over the side
of the bed. Maybe he could have been more explicit.
I have one bit of hard won advice for pregnant women. Trust
your thoughts and feelings even if they conflict with those of
doctors. That saved my life. Literally. The second day after
Amber's birth I knew that I had an infection. When the doctor on
rounds came by with his doctorlings I mentioned this and asked him to
have a nurse take my vitals. He said it was my imagination and
commented to the doctorlings about first time mothers. The second
they left I buzzed for the nurse and insisted that I was right. I was
burning up with fever. In a matter of moments I was hooked up to
intravenous antibiotics. I almost died. Before I left the place I
was told that if I had done what we are taught to do--obeyed the
doctor--Eugene would have been widowed, Amber half orphaned, and Katie
and Adam never conceived.
Trusting my thoughts and feelings also steeled me from being
guilted into second guessing, regrets, and depression by vaginal
birth supremicists. I got plenty of hate. For instance I had just
arrived in my room after Adam's birth when my roommate's mother was
screaming at me for being a lazy bitch and taking the easy way out
while her real woman daughter did the right thing. My baby in the
nursery had scored aced the Apgar and I would leave in my husband's
truck, not a hearse. Nothing else mattered.
Great big shout outs go out to the women who are on the beautiful
journey of bringing a human being into the world and their partners
and other allies and to my three incredible adult children who are my
legacy and my gift to the world.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Saturday, November 16, 2019
Other Words for Home
Other Words for Home
YA fiction
Right after Joey cat died my reading comprehension plunged. I
read three books without the ability to remember what I read or
describe it to someone else. Luckily I didn't panic. I knew that
just the right book would speak to me. Jasmine Warga's Other Words
for Home proved to be just the right book.
"Our city is on the sea. It sits below the mountains.
It is where the rest if Syria comes when they want to breathe.
No one is going to come this year, Fatima says."
Things are getting tense in Jude's household. Her beloved
brother, Issa, is talking about change and democracy.
"Issa says he wants to live in a country where
anyone can be
anyone
they want to be."
Their shipowner father, who, instead, wants safety and stability,
strongly disapproves.
"We live in a town that needs tourists.
Revolution
and war are not good
for business."
Jude feels her loyalties torn between two of the most important people
in her life.
Jude's community and nation reflect the division in her family.
In fact life in Syria has become so dangerous that one day her now
pregnant mother tells her they will be visiting her uncle in America.
Her father will not leave his store. Her brother will not leave his
freedom fighters.
Now Jude must leave her home, half her family, her life long
best friend, and everything she knows and loves to go to a very
strange place. She must, as Issa tells her, be brave, especially when
her mother learns that Issa has moved to a town near Aleppo.
"Even a girl like me,
a girl who likes movies more than news,
a girl who didn't pay
much attention to what was happening
knows Aleppo is synonymous with war."
Warga, herself, is part of a family split by an ocean. One day
in 2013 she met a friend's extended family just off the plane from
Syria. She watched Syrian and American cousins socialize. She got an
idea for a story she would write someday.
Someday came in 2016. The war in Syria had become front page
news.
"...More of the world was aware of what was happening, yet the
silence in response to the suffering of an entire population felt
deafening. Why didn't more people care? Why didn't more people want
to help?"
Stories move our minds and hearts in ways statistics can't.
Books like Other Words for Home can be strong inventives to care and
become involved.
On a purrrsonal note, at Wells we were really earning our money this
brunch. It was open house so we had lots of extra diners. In fact we
had 900-1000 hungry people, 600 of whom came through in the first
hour. Dishroom was a flurry of activity to get dishes and silverware
cleaned and back out in the serving area. When things got hectic we
got helpers including supervisor Loretta and manager Anna. When I
clocked out I was exhilerated and proud. Challenging shifts, when
carried out in the spirit of teamwork, can really bond people on a job
together. It's so good to work in such a place.
Great big shout outs go out to today's brunch team and to the best
little cat in the world who loved me.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
YA fiction
Right after Joey cat died my reading comprehension plunged. I
read three books without the ability to remember what I read or
describe it to someone else. Luckily I didn't panic. I knew that
just the right book would speak to me. Jasmine Warga's Other Words
for Home proved to be just the right book.
"Our city is on the sea. It sits below the mountains.
It is where the rest if Syria comes when they want to breathe.
No one is going to come this year, Fatima says."
Things are getting tense in Jude's household. Her beloved
brother, Issa, is talking about change and democracy.
"Issa says he wants to live in a country where
anyone can be
anyone
they want to be."
Their shipowner father, who, instead, wants safety and stability,
strongly disapproves.
"We live in a town that needs tourists.
Revolution
and war are not good
for business."
Jude feels her loyalties torn between two of the most important people
in her life.
Jude's community and nation reflect the division in her family.
In fact life in Syria has become so dangerous that one day her now
pregnant mother tells her they will be visiting her uncle in America.
Her father will not leave his store. Her brother will not leave his
freedom fighters.
Now Jude must leave her home, half her family, her life long
best friend, and everything she knows and loves to go to a very
strange place. She must, as Issa tells her, be brave, especially when
her mother learns that Issa has moved to a town near Aleppo.
"Even a girl like me,
a girl who likes movies more than news,
a girl who didn't pay
much attention to what was happening
knows Aleppo is synonymous with war."
Warga, herself, is part of a family split by an ocean. One day
in 2013 she met a friend's extended family just off the plane from
Syria. She watched Syrian and American cousins socialize. She got an
idea for a story she would write someday.
Someday came in 2016. The war in Syria had become front page
news.
"...More of the world was aware of what was happening, yet the
silence in response to the suffering of an entire population felt
deafening. Why didn't more people care? Why didn't more people want
to help?"
Stories move our minds and hearts in ways statistics can't.
Books like Other Words for Home can be strong inventives to care and
become involved.
On a purrrsonal note, at Wells we were really earning our money this
brunch. It was open house so we had lots of extra diners. In fact we
had 900-1000 hungry people, 600 of whom came through in the first
hour. Dishroom was a flurry of activity to get dishes and silverware
cleaned and back out in the serving area. When things got hectic we
got helpers including supervisor Loretta and manager Anna. When I
clocked out I was exhilerated and proud. Challenging shifts, when
carried out in the spirit of teamwork, can really bond people on a job
together. It's so good to work in such a place.
Great big shout outs go out to today's brunch team and to the best
little cat in the world who loved me.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
White Fragility
White Fragility
Adult nonfiction
My loved ones and I benefit undeservedly from white privilege in
a racist society. My partner can drive his pick up truck without
continuously being pulled over by police with hands on guns. He can
don his blaze orange in hunting season secure in the knowledge that
people will get that he's after deer, not rival gang members. As a
teen my son could walk to the store at night to buy Skittles and a
soda. My daughters weren't seen as hypersexual or dangerously defiant
in middle and high school. No one's suggesting that I'm in a
competitive graduate school for any reason other than ability and good
study habits or that my being admitted kept someone more qualified and
deserving out. That's only the tip of the privilege iceberg.
So why do so many people with skin the color of mine get all
bent out of shape by the suggestion that Obama's election hasn't
ushered in some post racial utopia? Robin Diangelo gives us answers
in her cogent and comprehensive White Fragility. We believe that
we're unique thinkers even though we've been indoctrinated by a racist
culture since birth. We don't even see that we have a racial
identity, believing that our perceptions and feelings are objective
and normative. We reduce racism to a good guy/bad guy narrative in
which if we aren't riding around in robes and hoods or trash talking
minoritized people over Thanksgiving turkey we can rest on our
laurels. Nothing to do with us.
That's where white fragility comes in. When the falsities of
those lines of thinking are called we can become (and feel entitled to
be) as mad as wet hornets. Whether we start yelling, withdraw
physically or psychologically from the conversation, or dissolve into
tears that shift the focus of the discourse to our discomfort, it's
all bad. It's all dangerous for a number of reasons including that it
it helps perpetuate the whole damn racist white privilege system.
Diangelo, who is white, gives us wonderful, hard won advice on
how to get beyond our fears and biases and engage productively in much
needed conversations. This poignant and perceptive book is a must
read for whites like me who want to be participants in the solution
rather than perpetrators of the problem.
On a purrrsonal note, there's an old song that talks about "always
something there to remind me." It sure is true about Joey cat. Here
are just three examples. Last week we had snow that stuck around
instead of just melting. Friday a week ago I came home to see my
steps and porch covered with purrrfect little pawprints courtesy of
our neighborhood outside cats. The same day I was at a program on
racial/ethnic communications. At the very end the speaker/facilitator
blindsided me by having us go around and name our best source of
stress relief. I said cat cuddling before I lost my precious Joey to
cancer after 16 wonderful years. Then a week later I saw some
students tabling. They had a rainbow of nail polishes and were set up
to do people's nails for free. It was about cancer awareness. There
was a color for every kind of cancer. I let them paint my nails white
(lung cancer) in Joey's memory. (I don't bother to do my nails but I
plan to buy white polish and nail polish remover and painting my nails
every day I don't work.) They were collecting stories so I wrote
Joey's down.
Eugene has been at camp since Thursday morning. The house is so
lonely without Joey. I've been sleeping in my studio in Eugene's
absence, not only because it's very close to the furnace, but because
it was where I shared so many wonderful times with Joey and is full of
reminders like his portrait and his cat bed. Of course I slept with
his blanket because I can't sleep without it.
A great big shout out goes out to the best little cat in the world who
loved me.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Adult nonfiction
My loved ones and I benefit undeservedly from white privilege in
a racist society. My partner can drive his pick up truck without
continuously being pulled over by police with hands on guns. He can
don his blaze orange in hunting season secure in the knowledge that
people will get that he's after deer, not rival gang members. As a
teen my son could walk to the store at night to buy Skittles and a
soda. My daughters weren't seen as hypersexual or dangerously defiant
in middle and high school. No one's suggesting that I'm in a
competitive graduate school for any reason other than ability and good
study habits or that my being admitted kept someone more qualified and
deserving out. That's only the tip of the privilege iceberg.
So why do so many people with skin the color of mine get all
bent out of shape by the suggestion that Obama's election hasn't
ushered in some post racial utopia? Robin Diangelo gives us answers
in her cogent and comprehensive White Fragility. We believe that
we're unique thinkers even though we've been indoctrinated by a racist
culture since birth. We don't even see that we have a racial
identity, believing that our perceptions and feelings are objective
and normative. We reduce racism to a good guy/bad guy narrative in
which if we aren't riding around in robes and hoods or trash talking
minoritized people over Thanksgiving turkey we can rest on our
laurels. Nothing to do with us.
That's where white fragility comes in. When the falsities of
those lines of thinking are called we can become (and feel entitled to
be) as mad as wet hornets. Whether we start yelling, withdraw
physically or psychologically from the conversation, or dissolve into
tears that shift the focus of the discourse to our discomfort, it's
all bad. It's all dangerous for a number of reasons including that it
it helps perpetuate the whole damn racist white privilege system.
Diangelo, who is white, gives us wonderful, hard won advice on
how to get beyond our fears and biases and engage productively in much
needed conversations. This poignant and perceptive book is a must
read for whites like me who want to be participants in the solution
rather than perpetrators of the problem.
On a purrrsonal note, there's an old song that talks about "always
something there to remind me." It sure is true about Joey cat. Here
are just three examples. Last week we had snow that stuck around
instead of just melting. Friday a week ago I came home to see my
steps and porch covered with purrrfect little pawprints courtesy of
our neighborhood outside cats. The same day I was at a program on
racial/ethnic communications. At the very end the speaker/facilitator
blindsided me by having us go around and name our best source of
stress relief. I said cat cuddling before I lost my precious Joey to
cancer after 16 wonderful years. Then a week later I saw some
students tabling. They had a rainbow of nail polishes and were set up
to do people's nails for free. It was about cancer awareness. There
was a color for every kind of cancer. I let them paint my nails white
(lung cancer) in Joey's memory. (I don't bother to do my nails but I
plan to buy white polish and nail polish remover and painting my nails
every day I don't work.) They were collecting stories so I wrote
Joey's down.
Eugene has been at camp since Thursday morning. The house is so
lonely without Joey. I've been sleeping in my studio in Eugene's
absence, not only because it's very close to the furnace, but because
it was where I shared so many wonderful times with Joey and is full of
reminders like his portrait and his cat bed. Of course I slept with
his blanket because I can't sleep without it.
A great big shout out goes out to the best little cat in the world who
loved me.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
This Land Is Our Land
This Land Is Our Land
Adult nonfiction
I suspect that if I asked you to name a bordering country that
has over 100,000 illegals living in the United States you'd guess
Mexico. You'd be wrong. We're talking Canada, our neighbor to the
north. So why isn't President Trump nagging Congress to build a
wall, BUILD A WALL, from Maine to Washington State, having children
torn from their parents' arms in Calais, and creating lurid
stereotypes of folks from Quebec? You can find intelligence on this
and many related questions in Suketu Mehta's This Land Is Our Land.
In my mind this is the most cogent, comprehensive book on immigration
you can find. Mehta, himself an immigrant, knows what he's talking
about.
Why are immigrants striving valiently and at great peril to
themselves and their beloved families to live in nations that are
often far from welcoming? Mehta gives us compelling reasons such as:
*the legacies of disasterous centuries of colonialism,
*the new colonialism in which multinational corporations have taken
the place of foreign governments,
*wars, many fought with weapons supplied by the United States,
and *climate change which floods some areas while turning others into
deserts.
Why are we so afraid of immigrants? Aren't we the Statue of
Liberty country. Mehta goes beyond the fear that the "superior" white
race will become mongralized or minoritized to show a truly sinister
force behind this polarizing paranoia. [Hint: it involves people in
very high places.]
According to Mehta, we are endangered not by immigrants, but by
the fear that has so many of us clamoring to "Build a wall. BUILD A
WALL!" He gives us very good reasons why we should, instead, be
rolling out the welcome mat.
This Land Is Our Land is a must read for anyone who wants to
understand this complex and controversial issue.
On a purrrsonal note, Thursday was Multicultural Thanksgiving. Ethnic
clubs on campus provided the food. Of course I volunteered from set
up to clean up. It was mad popular. We actually ran out of food and
had to send out for scads of pizzas. Everyone had a great time. This
was probably the real Thanksgiving for international students and
others who live too far away to fly home for 5 days.
Oh, yeah, I'm up to 115 volunteer hours for 2019, when I'd aimed for
only 100. And that's not counting the next blood drive and the time I
can put in at the library when the semester ends.
A great big shout out goes out to everyone who was involved in
Multicultural Thanksgiving.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Adult nonfiction
I suspect that if I asked you to name a bordering country that
has over 100,000 illegals living in the United States you'd guess
Mexico. You'd be wrong. We're talking Canada, our neighbor to the
north. So why isn't President Trump nagging Congress to build a
wall, BUILD A WALL, from Maine to Washington State, having children
torn from their parents' arms in Calais, and creating lurid
stereotypes of folks from Quebec? You can find intelligence on this
and many related questions in Suketu Mehta's This Land Is Our Land.
In my mind this is the most cogent, comprehensive book on immigration
you can find. Mehta, himself an immigrant, knows what he's talking
about.
Why are immigrants striving valiently and at great peril to
themselves and their beloved families to live in nations that are
often far from welcoming? Mehta gives us compelling reasons such as:
*the legacies of disasterous centuries of colonialism,
*the new colonialism in which multinational corporations have taken
the place of foreign governments,
*wars, many fought with weapons supplied by the United States,
and *climate change which floods some areas while turning others into
deserts.
Why are we so afraid of immigrants? Aren't we the Statue of
Liberty country. Mehta goes beyond the fear that the "superior" white
race will become mongralized or minoritized to show a truly sinister
force behind this polarizing paranoia. [Hint: it involves people in
very high places.]
According to Mehta, we are endangered not by immigrants, but by
the fear that has so many of us clamoring to "Build a wall. BUILD A
WALL!" He gives us very good reasons why we should, instead, be
rolling out the welcome mat.
This Land Is Our Land is a must read for anyone who wants to
understand this complex and controversial issue.
On a purrrsonal note, Thursday was Multicultural Thanksgiving. Ethnic
clubs on campus provided the food. Of course I volunteered from set
up to clean up. It was mad popular. We actually ran out of food and
had to send out for scads of pizzas. Everyone had a great time. This
was probably the real Thanksgiving for international students and
others who live too far away to fly home for 5 days.
Oh, yeah, I'm up to 115 volunteer hours for 2019, when I'd aimed for
only 100. And that's not counting the next blood drive and the time I
can put in at the library when the semester ends.
A great big shout out goes out to everyone who was involved in
Multicultural Thanksgiving.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Tuesday, November 12, 2019
We Live For The We
We Live For The We
Adult nonfiction
"This book sets out to broaden a conversation established by the
current wave of writing wave on writing about motherhood, which has
tended to focus on white, middle-class women's experiences. These
writings frame motherhood as something that robs women of prefessional
ambitions, gets us off track as earners, and reminds us that biology
and age-old gender roles are indeed destiny. I can relate to funny
anecdotes about sleep deprivation, toddlers' antics, and ruined sex
lives, but these books rarely address the politics of mothering--
namely, issues of power, position, and protection."
Dani McClain (quoted above) was pregnant in 2015. Nearly all
about to be mothers feel at least a certain amount of anxiety. She
had more reason than most. She knew that black mothers are much more
likely to die of pregnancy complications than white mothers and that
infant mortality rates are higher for black than for white babies.
And there were so many news stories about police shootings of unarmed
blacks. She and her daughter, Isobel, fortunately pulled through.
But she was left with the challenge of raising her child in a safe,
affirming atmosphere in a country where many people would consider her
less than human. Her We Live For The We is the product of this quest.
In her quest for models of how to create the safe spaces and
inclusive communities that would protect her beloved child and nurture
her into becoming a confident, competent, ethical, joyous adult,
McClain sought out visionaries and activists all over the country who
are raising children of their own. Readers get to meet some pretty
amazing people.
The organization of We Live For The We is brilliant. Each
chapter focuses on an issue or potential issue in Isobel's life
trajectory. Home concerns efforts to create a domestic haven where
foods are nourishing, time is spent on nurturing, and discipline is
not harsh. School takes into consideration the factors involved in
selection of perhaps the move to another city or state. For black
children being in well resources schools and being in schools in which
they aren't the token minorities are often mutually exclusive. Which
should take precidence? There is also discussion of the racist school
to jail pipeline.
The title it perfect. White America is still sold on the myth
of meritocracy and the superiority of living for the I--the self or
nuclear family. Those who wield enough power use it to further the
already considerable advantages they and their offspring enjoy,
seriously limiting the rest of us. This results in the serious wealth
gap between the wealthy and the rest of us. Is it good for 6 members
of the Walton family to own as much as 40% of all Americans?
As McClain points out, blacks have always had to live for the
we, the community. The rest of us need to emulate them. The only way
we will ever achieve fairness, justice, an end to climate change and
environmental devastation, and access for all to resources as basic as
clean air and water, food, and shelter is to rise up in solidarity and
stop letting the rich and their bought and owned politicians keep us
divided and conquered. I highly recommend We Live For The We. It's a
very thought provoking book.
On a purrrsonal note, I am so frustrated tonight. My theories class
was CANCELLED due to weather. Personally I don't think it's all that
bad. I can understand Jen not wanting someone dying in a car crash.
But it's such a fascinating class and I get so much out of our
discussions. If Joey was still here there would be something magic
about coming home early to a being who loved me and having more cuddle
time. Nothing magic about coming home early to a dark, empty house.
Great big shout outs go out to Jen for teaching such a fascinating
theories class and to the best little cat in the world who loved me.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Adult nonfiction
"This book sets out to broaden a conversation established by the
current wave of writing wave on writing about motherhood, which has
tended to focus on white, middle-class women's experiences. These
writings frame motherhood as something that robs women of prefessional
ambitions, gets us off track as earners, and reminds us that biology
and age-old gender roles are indeed destiny. I can relate to funny
anecdotes about sleep deprivation, toddlers' antics, and ruined sex
lives, but these books rarely address the politics of mothering--
namely, issues of power, position, and protection."
Dani McClain (quoted above) was pregnant in 2015. Nearly all
about to be mothers feel at least a certain amount of anxiety. She
had more reason than most. She knew that black mothers are much more
likely to die of pregnancy complications than white mothers and that
infant mortality rates are higher for black than for white babies.
And there were so many news stories about police shootings of unarmed
blacks. She and her daughter, Isobel, fortunately pulled through.
But she was left with the challenge of raising her child in a safe,
affirming atmosphere in a country where many people would consider her
less than human. Her We Live For The We is the product of this quest.
In her quest for models of how to create the safe spaces and
inclusive communities that would protect her beloved child and nurture
her into becoming a confident, competent, ethical, joyous adult,
McClain sought out visionaries and activists all over the country who
are raising children of their own. Readers get to meet some pretty
amazing people.
The organization of We Live For The We is brilliant. Each
chapter focuses on an issue or potential issue in Isobel's life
trajectory. Home concerns efforts to create a domestic haven where
foods are nourishing, time is spent on nurturing, and discipline is
not harsh. School takes into consideration the factors involved in
selection of perhaps the move to another city or state. For black
children being in well resources schools and being in schools in which
they aren't the token minorities are often mutually exclusive. Which
should take precidence? There is also discussion of the racist school
to jail pipeline.
The title it perfect. White America is still sold on the myth
of meritocracy and the superiority of living for the I--the self or
nuclear family. Those who wield enough power use it to further the
already considerable advantages they and their offspring enjoy,
seriously limiting the rest of us. This results in the serious wealth
gap between the wealthy and the rest of us. Is it good for 6 members
of the Walton family to own as much as 40% of all Americans?
As McClain points out, blacks have always had to live for the
we, the community. The rest of us need to emulate them. The only way
we will ever achieve fairness, justice, an end to climate change and
environmental devastation, and access for all to resources as basic as
clean air and water, food, and shelter is to rise up in solidarity and
stop letting the rich and their bought and owned politicians keep us
divided and conquered. I highly recommend We Live For The We. It's a
very thought provoking book.
On a purrrsonal note, I am so frustrated tonight. My theories class
was CANCELLED due to weather. Personally I don't think it's all that
bad. I can understand Jen not wanting someone dying in a car crash.
But it's such a fascinating class and I get so much out of our
discussions. If Joey was still here there would be something magic
about coming home early to a being who loved me and having more cuddle
time. Nothing magic about coming home early to a dark, empty house.
Great big shout outs go out to Jen for teaching such a fascinating
theories class and to the best little cat in the world who loved me.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Monday, November 11, 2019
One Of Us Is Lying
One Of Us Is Lying
YA mystery
"Nate ignores me, tossing Simon's empty backpack aside. 'Fuck!'
he yells slamming a fist on the floor. 'Do you keep it on you,
Simon? Simon!' Simon's eyes roll back in his head as Nate digs around
in Simon's pockets. But he doesn't find anything except a wrinkled
Kleenex."
What should have been an ordinairy after school detention period
turns out to be anything but in Karen McManus' One Of Us Is Lying.
Simon dies from ingesting peanut oil. Investigators decide that it's
homicide. One of the other students had the opportunity to kill him
and make sure he didn't survive. Not only Simon's personal Epipen,
but the two in the school nurse's office, have gone missing.
Any of the other students would have had abundant motive to
silence Simon. He was the creator and content provider of a vicious
gossip app that revealed the secrets of his classmates to their
Bayview High peers. His post the next day was to feature dirt on the
four peers who ended up in detention with him.
The story is told from their alternating perspectives. As the
investigation unfolds readers get to see the complex dynamics of their
home and school lives.
Someone is lying.
But who?
Can you figure that out before the surprise ending?
On a purrrsonal note, if you ever have a hard time deciding what to
wear in the morning because you have too many clothes to recall what
goes well with what, my daughter, Amber, has an idea that might make
your mornings a whole lot easier. Be sure to check out http://amberscraftaweek.blogspot.com
for what might make a fun New Years resolution.
A great big shout out goes out to my crafty daughter, Amber.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
YA mystery
"Nate ignores me, tossing Simon's empty backpack aside. 'Fuck!'
he yells slamming a fist on the floor. 'Do you keep it on you,
Simon? Simon!' Simon's eyes roll back in his head as Nate digs around
in Simon's pockets. But he doesn't find anything except a wrinkled
Kleenex."
What should have been an ordinairy after school detention period
turns out to be anything but in Karen McManus' One Of Us Is Lying.
Simon dies from ingesting peanut oil. Investigators decide that it's
homicide. One of the other students had the opportunity to kill him
and make sure he didn't survive. Not only Simon's personal Epipen,
but the two in the school nurse's office, have gone missing.
Any of the other students would have had abundant motive to
silence Simon. He was the creator and content provider of a vicious
gossip app that revealed the secrets of his classmates to their
Bayview High peers. His post the next day was to feature dirt on the
four peers who ended up in detention with him.
The story is told from their alternating perspectives. As the
investigation unfolds readers get to see the complex dynamics of their
home and school lives.
Someone is lying.
But who?
Can you figure that out before the surprise ending?
On a purrrsonal note, if you ever have a hard time deciding what to
wear in the morning because you have too many clothes to recall what
goes well with what, my daughter, Amber, has an idea that might make
your mornings a whole lot easier. Be sure to check out http://amberscraftaweek.blogspot.com
for what might make a fun New Years resolution.
A great big shout out goes out to my crafty daughter, Amber.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
More Grumpy Cat
More Grumpy Cat
Cat lovers
I have to admit it. My first Grumpy Cat book made me a total
fan. I quickly ordered five more volumes via the magic of inter
library loan.
Our friends at Little Golden Books, purveyors of bargain
children's classics such as The Poky Little Puppy and Color Kittens,
really get the Grumpster. One day she goes outside only to be greeted
by a bunch of cheerful critters. How's she gonna get away from that?
Read the book and see.
Grumpy Cat (And Pokey!) and The Misadventures of Grumpy Cat (And
Pokey!) bring the Grumpster to the graphic novel reading crowd. Each
volume contains a series of adventures undertaken eagerly by Pokey and
endured by Grumpy. Whether a haunted house waits to be explored,
aliens from another planet land on Earth, snobby felines challenge
them to a tree climbing contest, or Pokey falls in love with the girl
cat next door and requests Grumpy's help with courtship, the feline
sibling duo tackles the situation with amewsing results.
My favorites, though are the ones built around actual photos and
clever captions. The Grumpy Guide To Life is the polar opposite of an
inspirational book. It shows the darker side of topics like love,
home, and nature. In Grumpy Cat No-It-All you learn the Grumpster's
least favorite things and how she goes about vetoing them.
Paridoxically reading a Grumpy Cat book can be the purrrfect way
to put a smile on your face.
On a purrrsonal note. Today is Veterans' Day. If you're getting the
day off from school or work please remember the solemn reason behind
the observance. I certainly did. But this year for me there's
another layer of remembering sadness. It's the three month
anniversary of Joey leaving us. I suspect there are gallons of tears
in me just waiting to get out. While I normally don't recommend
shopping on a solemn observance day, I'm gonna cut myself slack and
make a Goodwill run. The alternate, drowning in sorrow, is not all
that appealing.
Great big shout outs go out to veterans and their families and to the
best little cat in the world who loved me.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Cat lovers
I have to admit it. My first Grumpy Cat book made me a total
fan. I quickly ordered five more volumes via the magic of inter
library loan.
Our friends at Little Golden Books, purveyors of bargain
children's classics such as The Poky Little Puppy and Color Kittens,
really get the Grumpster. One day she goes outside only to be greeted
by a bunch of cheerful critters. How's she gonna get away from that?
Read the book and see.
Grumpy Cat (And Pokey!) and The Misadventures of Grumpy Cat (And
Pokey!) bring the Grumpster to the graphic novel reading crowd. Each
volume contains a series of adventures undertaken eagerly by Pokey and
endured by Grumpy. Whether a haunted house waits to be explored,
aliens from another planet land on Earth, snobby felines challenge
them to a tree climbing contest, or Pokey falls in love with the girl
cat next door and requests Grumpy's help with courtship, the feline
sibling duo tackles the situation with amewsing results.
My favorites, though are the ones built around actual photos and
clever captions. The Grumpy Guide To Life is the polar opposite of an
inspirational book. It shows the darker side of topics like love,
home, and nature. In Grumpy Cat No-It-All you learn the Grumpster's
least favorite things and how she goes about vetoing them.
Paridoxically reading a Grumpy Cat book can be the purrrfect way
to put a smile on your face.
On a purrrsonal note. Today is Veterans' Day. If you're getting the
day off from school or work please remember the solemn reason behind
the observance. I certainly did. But this year for me there's
another layer of remembering sadness. It's the three month
anniversary of Joey leaving us. I suspect there are gallons of tears
in me just waiting to get out. While I normally don't recommend
shopping on a solemn observance day, I'm gonna cut myself slack and
make a Goodwill run. The alternate, drowning in sorrow, is not all
that appealing.
Great big shout outs go out to veterans and their families and to the
best little cat in the world who loved me.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Periods Gone Public
Periods Gone Public
Adult nonfiction
My first two menstruation related memories are, to put it
charitably, bizarre. I was an 11-year-old Girl Scout at camp in the
first. My cabin mates must have been really stepping on the
counselors' last nerve. (I probably was one of the instigators.) They
offered us an unusual bribe. If we would just leave them alone they'd
lend us a strictly taboo transistor radio. At one point our music was
interrupted by the news flash that the Pope had hemhoraged to death.
The next morning I woke up to a terrified scream. You can guess what
one of the girls had discovered.
When I woke a counselor up with the news that a cabinmate was
bleeding to death like the Pope she began laughing, which didn't seem
like an appropriate response to the imminent demise of one of her
charges. At the cabin she sent all of us but the stricken girl
outside. When she emerged she assured us that our friend was not
going to die, get sent home, or even spend the night in the
infirmary. End of discussion.
When I was 14 my usually strictly honest mother had put the date
of my first period on a form. Only it had not happened. When I asked
her why she was lying on an official document she explained that that
was to be our little secret. We wouldn't want people to think that
there was something wrong with me.
Jennifer Weiss-Wolf, quoted above, would not have been
surprised. New Years Day 2015 she had an epiphany. She'd taken part
in the annual Polar Bear Club Swim. When she went on Facebook to
share her pictures a post caught her eye. A family was collecting
period products for a food pantry. She wondered how, as a feminist,
she could have not become previously aware of period poverty. A
Google search turned into a life mission.
"...After hours, I kept reflecting on menstruation, placing it
squarely in the context of social justice, civic participation, and
gender equity. Before long I began to connect with journalists,
lawmakers, activists, and entrepreneurs, and I found myself entrenched
in a growing global network of people who were equally intrigued and
motivated by the power of periods.
The fruit of Weiss-Wolf's labor is Periods Gone Public. Equal
parts research data, personal narratives of others, and her own
intimate journey, it's currently the closest thing we have to a badass
period bible. The book sets menstruation practices and cultural
beliefs within historic and global contexts. Intersectionality is the
context in which her discourse takes place. Although there are many
specific examples of problems and attempted solutions, larger
questions are posed. My favorite section is the one on seeing a wide
range of policy options through a menstrual lens. And there is
acknowledgement that current best practices may be in conflict. Green
products, for example, better for the environment and the human body,
may be too costly for low income people in developed countries and a
no starter in places where menstruating people have no access to safe
changing places and enough water for cleaning selves and reusable
products.
Periods Gone Public is a clarion call to take action.
"At its core, a menstrual movement, and Periods Gone Public, is
about challenging all of us to face stigma head-on. And about
advancing an agenda that recognizes the power, pride, and absolute
normalcy of periods. Indeed, President Trump, we do have blood coming
out of our wherever. Every month. It is not a secret."
Amen to that!
On a purrrsonal note, I've been a party animal recently. Two
celebrations in three days! Quite the social life for a grad student.
On Thursday we had Gay Thanksgiving. I volunteered from set up
to clean up, rocking all my state of the art food service skills. I
instructed the other servers on safe food handling. (Manager Anna
would have been so proud.) We had a big, happy crowd show up and more
that enough food to satisy them. The solidarity and sense of
community were tangible. For a number of LGBTQ people there it was
Thanksgiving of the heart because calendar Thanksgiving with the
family won't be anywhere near as welcoming and accepting.
This week we'll have Multicultural Thanksgiving. I was given
the option of just going. I don't have to volunteer just because I'm
aces at food service. Actually I'm more comfortable volunteering. I
guess it's just part of who I am.
Saturday was the appreciation dinner for community garden
volunteers. Homemade soup and bread, salad and pie, wine, a fireplace
fire, background music, and really good people. We had it all. We
made plans for future gardens. We had awards. Once again I got most
sociable gardener. We did the garden during the period when Joey had
cancer and died. Somehow even clinically depressed I'm perceived as
sociable. We enjoyed a movie showing the progress of the garden.
We had wine in lovely glasses. I decided I would lead a toast.
I talked about how professors in my department are encouraging me to
think big and pursue my own research interests. I proposed a toast to
my future. Everybody was happy to drink to that. It was truly a
magic moment. I know that tradition says you make a toast for someone
else. But when something truly amazing happens in your life, screw
tradition.
Great big shout outs go out to everyone involved in both celebrations.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Adult nonfiction
My first two menstruation related memories are, to put it
charitably, bizarre. I was an 11-year-old Girl Scout at camp in the
first. My cabin mates must have been really stepping on the
counselors' last nerve. (I probably was one of the instigators.) They
offered us an unusual bribe. If we would just leave them alone they'd
lend us a strictly taboo transistor radio. At one point our music was
interrupted by the news flash that the Pope had hemhoraged to death.
The next morning I woke up to a terrified scream. You can guess what
one of the girls had discovered.
When I woke a counselor up with the news that a cabinmate was
bleeding to death like the Pope she began laughing, which didn't seem
like an appropriate response to the imminent demise of one of her
charges. At the cabin she sent all of us but the stricken girl
outside. When she emerged she assured us that our friend was not
going to die, get sent home, or even spend the night in the
infirmary. End of discussion.
When I was 14 my usually strictly honest mother had put the date
of my first period on a form. Only it had not happened. When I asked
her why she was lying on an official document she explained that that
was to be our little secret. We wouldn't want people to think that
there was something wrong with me.
Jennifer Weiss-Wolf, quoted above, would not have been
surprised. New Years Day 2015 she had an epiphany. She'd taken part
in the annual Polar Bear Club Swim. When she went on Facebook to
share her pictures a post caught her eye. A family was collecting
period products for a food pantry. She wondered how, as a feminist,
she could have not become previously aware of period poverty. A
Google search turned into a life mission.
"...After hours, I kept reflecting on menstruation, placing it
squarely in the context of social justice, civic participation, and
gender equity. Before long I began to connect with journalists,
lawmakers, activists, and entrepreneurs, and I found myself entrenched
in a growing global network of people who were equally intrigued and
motivated by the power of periods.
The fruit of Weiss-Wolf's labor is Periods Gone Public. Equal
parts research data, personal narratives of others, and her own
intimate journey, it's currently the closest thing we have to a badass
period bible. The book sets menstruation practices and cultural
beliefs within historic and global contexts. Intersectionality is the
context in which her discourse takes place. Although there are many
specific examples of problems and attempted solutions, larger
questions are posed. My favorite section is the one on seeing a wide
range of policy options through a menstrual lens. And there is
acknowledgement that current best practices may be in conflict. Green
products, for example, better for the environment and the human body,
may be too costly for low income people in developed countries and a
no starter in places where menstruating people have no access to safe
changing places and enough water for cleaning selves and reusable
products.
Periods Gone Public is a clarion call to take action.
"At its core, a menstrual movement, and Periods Gone Public, is
about challenging all of us to face stigma head-on. And about
advancing an agenda that recognizes the power, pride, and absolute
normalcy of periods. Indeed, President Trump, we do have blood coming
out of our wherever. Every month. It is not a secret."
Amen to that!
On a purrrsonal note, I've been a party animal recently. Two
celebrations in three days! Quite the social life for a grad student.
On Thursday we had Gay Thanksgiving. I volunteered from set up
to clean up, rocking all my state of the art food service skills. I
instructed the other servers on safe food handling. (Manager Anna
would have been so proud.) We had a big, happy crowd show up and more
that enough food to satisy them. The solidarity and sense of
community were tangible. For a number of LGBTQ people there it was
Thanksgiving of the heart because calendar Thanksgiving with the
family won't be anywhere near as welcoming and accepting.
This week we'll have Multicultural Thanksgiving. I was given
the option of just going. I don't have to volunteer just because I'm
aces at food service. Actually I'm more comfortable volunteering. I
guess it's just part of who I am.
Saturday was the appreciation dinner for community garden
volunteers. Homemade soup and bread, salad and pie, wine, a fireplace
fire, background music, and really good people. We had it all. We
made plans for future gardens. We had awards. Once again I got most
sociable gardener. We did the garden during the period when Joey had
cancer and died. Somehow even clinically depressed I'm perceived as
sociable. We enjoyed a movie showing the progress of the garden.
We had wine in lovely glasses. I decided I would lead a toast.
I talked about how professors in my department are encouraging me to
think big and pursue my own research interests. I proposed a toast to
my future. Everybody was happy to drink to that. It was truly a
magic moment. I know that tradition says you make a toast for someone
else. But when something truly amazing happens in your life, screw
tradition.
Great big shout outs go out to everyone involved in both celebrations.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Thursday, November 7, 2019
The Man They Wanted Me To Be
The Man They Wanted Me To Be
Adult memoir
"I was one of the first journalists to walk among them [Trump
supporters] because these are my people. Growing up in a dirt-poor,
factory family in southern Indiana, I'd heard all this before, though
usually behind closed doors, and thus could observe without flinching
or revealing myself. I also knew how to dress--jeans, t-shirts,
scuffed boots, an old, soiled baseball cap--and to carry myself as if
I had better things to do and yet was ready to fight at a moment's
notice..."
The 2016 presidential campaign and its aftermath introduced many
of us to a shocking subculture we'd been able to remain largely
unaware of. It was a realm in which any kind of filter was suspect--
evidence of the despised political correctness or pussification of the
country, grabbing women by the pussy was an accomplishment to be proud
of, and virulent hate groups contained "many fine people." It was the
world in which Jared Yates Sexton, quoted above, grew up, the one he
shines a light on in his memoir, The Man They Wanted Me To Be.
Sexton grew up in a patriarchal world in which men were the
unquestioned kings of the castle. After work they were free to sit
around watching tv and being inconsiderate, sometimes violent, jerks.
Even if women also worked, they were also in charge of child care,
cleaning, shopping...and that dinner better be on the table on time,
or else!
During Sexton's childhood he survived several dangerous, violent
macho men whom his mother married, guys who seemed decent until
matrimony and then showed their true colors. His memories include the
rushed escapes he and his mom made, their belongings thrown into
garbage bags. He was seen as weak, sickly [asthma], girlish, a family
black sheep, someone who needed to shape up.
"These men raised me. They punished me when I didn't fit in.
They beat me and tortured me, all in an effort to toughen me up and
make me just like them. They were my uncles, my cousins, my friends,
my neighbors, my stepfathers, and even my own father."
In the final section of his book, Crisis Of Our Own Making,
Sexton explores the contributions of the cult of toxic masculinity in
which he grew up to the election of Donald Trump and the continued
blindness of a large segment of the population to his presidential
shortcomings.
The Man They Wanted Me To Be is a must read for anyone concerned
about the role toxic masculinity plays in our current government and
the lives of many of its supporters.
On a purrrsonal note, I had a really good time Monday. Last year when
I was in Seminar our field trip was bad weathered out. Don't you hate
those inconvenient snow/sleet events? Well this year we were invited
to go to the field with this year's class. It was great. I learned a
lot about how an elite private college differs from an elite state
flagship university. (Which was probably the intent of the trip.)
there was something else really special about the trip. But that
requires a bit of back story.
I've had a lot of people see my intelligence as something they
could mold into conventional forms of thinking. This is about as
possible as trying to power a temperature controlled stove with wild
fire. I see the big picture. I think of elements that aren't in the
discourse. I tie ideas together in novel ways. I'd rather take risks
on ideas that might not work out rather than stick to safe ones. (Not
that I'm undisciplined. I take my academics very seriously). If I
had a dollar for every time I heard stuff like "That's not how we do
things." I could probably jet off to Paris France for a vaca.
On the way to the field trip I got to sit in the van with
Elizabeth who teaches the class and heads up her program. She sees
teachers and students as capable of bring valuable knowledge and
insight to the classroom rather than the teacher stuffing the students
who then prove they have properly ingested. I was eager to tell her
the ideas I'm working on. She was impressed and encouraging. The
next day I had a talk with my advisor, Leah, who was also very
validating and excited about the possibilities. For the first time in
my life my kind of thinking is not only OK but wonderful. And if one
of my ideas doesn't pan out it is not the end of the world. In the
place I'm in now I've gone from ugly duckling to swan. I'm no longer
pressured to be the person others want me to be. I bet a lot of us
get pressured to be the human someone else wants us to be.
Great big shout outs go out to Elizabeth and Leah and the Colby folks
who have us an outstanding tour and took the time to answer all our
questions.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Adult memoir
"I was one of the first journalists to walk among them [Trump
supporters] because these are my people. Growing up in a dirt-poor,
factory family in southern Indiana, I'd heard all this before, though
usually behind closed doors, and thus could observe without flinching
or revealing myself. I also knew how to dress--jeans, t-shirts,
scuffed boots, an old, soiled baseball cap--and to carry myself as if
I had better things to do and yet was ready to fight at a moment's
notice..."
The 2016 presidential campaign and its aftermath introduced many
of us to a shocking subculture we'd been able to remain largely
unaware of. It was a realm in which any kind of filter was suspect--
evidence of the despised political correctness or pussification of the
country, grabbing women by the pussy was an accomplishment to be proud
of, and virulent hate groups contained "many fine people." It was the
world in which Jared Yates Sexton, quoted above, grew up, the one he
shines a light on in his memoir, The Man They Wanted Me To Be.
Sexton grew up in a patriarchal world in which men were the
unquestioned kings of the castle. After work they were free to sit
around watching tv and being inconsiderate, sometimes violent, jerks.
Even if women also worked, they were also in charge of child care,
cleaning, shopping...and that dinner better be on the table on time,
or else!
During Sexton's childhood he survived several dangerous, violent
macho men whom his mother married, guys who seemed decent until
matrimony and then showed their true colors. His memories include the
rushed escapes he and his mom made, their belongings thrown into
garbage bags. He was seen as weak, sickly [asthma], girlish, a family
black sheep, someone who needed to shape up.
"These men raised me. They punished me when I didn't fit in.
They beat me and tortured me, all in an effort to toughen me up and
make me just like them. They were my uncles, my cousins, my friends,
my neighbors, my stepfathers, and even my own father."
In the final section of his book, Crisis Of Our Own Making,
Sexton explores the contributions of the cult of toxic masculinity in
which he grew up to the election of Donald Trump and the continued
blindness of a large segment of the population to his presidential
shortcomings.
The Man They Wanted Me To Be is a must read for anyone concerned
about the role toxic masculinity plays in our current government and
the lives of many of its supporters.
On a purrrsonal note, I had a really good time Monday. Last year when
I was in Seminar our field trip was bad weathered out. Don't you hate
those inconvenient snow/sleet events? Well this year we were invited
to go to the field with this year's class. It was great. I learned a
lot about how an elite private college differs from an elite state
flagship university. (Which was probably the intent of the trip.)
there was something else really special about the trip. But that
requires a bit of back story.
I've had a lot of people see my intelligence as something they
could mold into conventional forms of thinking. This is about as
possible as trying to power a temperature controlled stove with wild
fire. I see the big picture. I think of elements that aren't in the
discourse. I tie ideas together in novel ways. I'd rather take risks
on ideas that might not work out rather than stick to safe ones. (Not
that I'm undisciplined. I take my academics very seriously). If I
had a dollar for every time I heard stuff like "That's not how we do
things." I could probably jet off to Paris France for a vaca.
On the way to the field trip I got to sit in the van with
Elizabeth who teaches the class and heads up her program. She sees
teachers and students as capable of bring valuable knowledge and
insight to the classroom rather than the teacher stuffing the students
who then prove they have properly ingested. I was eager to tell her
the ideas I'm working on. She was impressed and encouraging. The
next day I had a talk with my advisor, Leah, who was also very
validating and excited about the possibilities. For the first time in
my life my kind of thinking is not only OK but wonderful. And if one
of my ideas doesn't pan out it is not the end of the world. In the
place I'm in now I've gone from ugly duckling to swan. I'm no longer
pressured to be the person others want me to be. I bet a lot of us
get pressured to be the human someone else wants us to be.
Great big shout outs go out to Elizabeth and Leah and the Colby folks
who have us an outstanding tour and took the time to answer all our
questions.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Sunday, November 3, 2019
Dog-Friendly Hikes In Maine
Dog-Friendly Hikes In Maine
Dog Lovers
If you are a dog's best buddy, you walk. A canine's gotta go in
all the adverse weathers Mother Nature sees fit to dish out in Maine.
That's the number one (bad pun intended) reason my kids never had any
man's best friends. Litter boxes stay inside.
Some people have something a little more ambitious than the
water a tree, squat and deliver rounds in mind for special occassions
or just time off. I can see my wonderful manager, Anna, leading her
canine chums through this season's dazzling fall foliage forests and
being in seventh heaven. So when I saw Aislinn Sarnacki's Dog-
Friendly Hikes In Maine at the Orono Public Library, I just had to
check it out.
Sarnicki is just the person to write this book. She's the human
companion of Oreo, an adorable shelter dog. (Reviewer's note:
remember when it comes to dogs and cats, adoption is the best way to
get a furever friend). She's also an outdoors reporter for the Bangor
Daily News, doing her best to get us out into nature. You can tell
she's passionate about her vocation. And her passion is contagious.
Her voice is intimate and conversational. You get the sensation of
getting together over a cup of coffee. And, like some reviewer I
know, she includes personal notes.
The thirty-five hikes cover much of Maine from the Big City
(Portland) to pretty darn close to the border with Canada. Some are
in the hearts of cities; others are out in the boonies where moose
probably outnumber humans. Each starts with a map and a set of
standard bullet points covering topics such as difficulty, cost, dog
rules, access, and how to get there. Then the fun part starts.
There's a narrative of features and useful information. Finally there
are dog friendly businesses including canine comfy lodging and
personal notes.
For anyone who is tempted to skip the first few chapters and get
right down to the hiking particulars, don't. There are a lot of
considerations that should enter in deciding whether to let your dog
off leash. There is nice specific information on taking care of
canine crap and packing all the accoutrements your dog could need.
And you have to know how to protect your dog and yourself from ticks.
So if you're like Anna, you'll really want to get your hands on
this book. Considering all the joy you and your dogs can get out of
it it's a very wise investment. Actually you don't have to be a doggy
daddy or mommy to enjoy it. I think next time I'm visiting my younger
daughter I'll suggest the Portland hike.
On a purrrsonal note, this has been a mixed weekend. Saturday I went
to Sweet Frog (a frozen yogurt place) with some friends. That was so
much fun! I'm slowly managing to supplement graduate school and work
with volunteering and social life.
Today while cleaning I found another of Joey cat's jingle bells and
felt my heart falling to pieces. Again. They were his favorite
toys. He loved batting them back and forth with me or chasing them at
fever pitch from one end of the trailer to the other. I can see him
so clearly in my mind's eye. Veterans Day will be the three month
anniversary of his death. I am trying not to think ahead to what
might be my first catless Christmas in sixteen years.
People, if you're lucky enough to have your cat or dog still with you,
never neglect them or take them for granted. Cherish each precious
day with them as I did. Because they deserves no less. And you never
know...
Great big shout outs go out to all who rightly treasure their dog and
cat companions and to the best little cat in the world who left big
paw prints on my broken heart.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Dog Lovers
If you are a dog's best buddy, you walk. A canine's gotta go in
all the adverse weathers Mother Nature sees fit to dish out in Maine.
That's the number one (bad pun intended) reason my kids never had any
man's best friends. Litter boxes stay inside.
Some people have something a little more ambitious than the
water a tree, squat and deliver rounds in mind for special occassions
or just time off. I can see my wonderful manager, Anna, leading her
canine chums through this season's dazzling fall foliage forests and
being in seventh heaven. So when I saw Aislinn Sarnacki's Dog-
Friendly Hikes In Maine at the Orono Public Library, I just had to
check it out.
Sarnicki is just the person to write this book. She's the human
companion of Oreo, an adorable shelter dog. (Reviewer's note:
remember when it comes to dogs and cats, adoption is the best way to
get a furever friend). She's also an outdoors reporter for the Bangor
Daily News, doing her best to get us out into nature. You can tell
she's passionate about her vocation. And her passion is contagious.
Her voice is intimate and conversational. You get the sensation of
getting together over a cup of coffee. And, like some reviewer I
know, she includes personal notes.
The thirty-five hikes cover much of Maine from the Big City
(Portland) to pretty darn close to the border with Canada. Some are
in the hearts of cities; others are out in the boonies where moose
probably outnumber humans. Each starts with a map and a set of
standard bullet points covering topics such as difficulty, cost, dog
rules, access, and how to get there. Then the fun part starts.
There's a narrative of features and useful information. Finally there
are dog friendly businesses including canine comfy lodging and
personal notes.
For anyone who is tempted to skip the first few chapters and get
right down to the hiking particulars, don't. There are a lot of
considerations that should enter in deciding whether to let your dog
off leash. There is nice specific information on taking care of
canine crap and packing all the accoutrements your dog could need.
And you have to know how to protect your dog and yourself from ticks.
So if you're like Anna, you'll really want to get your hands on
this book. Considering all the joy you and your dogs can get out of
it it's a very wise investment. Actually you don't have to be a doggy
daddy or mommy to enjoy it. I think next time I'm visiting my younger
daughter I'll suggest the Portland hike.
On a purrrsonal note, this has been a mixed weekend. Saturday I went
to Sweet Frog (a frozen yogurt place) with some friends. That was so
much fun! I'm slowly managing to supplement graduate school and work
with volunteering and social life.
Today while cleaning I found another of Joey cat's jingle bells and
felt my heart falling to pieces. Again. They were his favorite
toys. He loved batting them back and forth with me or chasing them at
fever pitch from one end of the trailer to the other. I can see him
so clearly in my mind's eye. Veterans Day will be the three month
anniversary of his death. I am trying not to think ahead to what
might be my first catless Christmas in sixteen years.
People, if you're lucky enough to have your cat or dog still with you,
never neglect them or take them for granted. Cherish each precious
day with them as I did. Because they deserves no less. And you never
know...
Great big shout outs go out to all who rightly treasure their dog and
cat companions and to the best little cat in the world who left big
paw prints on my broken heart.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Friday, November 1, 2019
Invisible Women
Invisible Women
Adult nonfiction
"Most of recorded human history is one big data gap. Starting
with the theory of Man the Hunter, the chronicles of the past have
left little space for women's role in the evolution of humanity,
whether cultural or biological. Instead, the lives of men have been
taken to taken to represent those of humans overall. When it comes to
the lives of the other half of humanity, there is nothing but silence."
If you're a woman (or gender fluid like me) you really need to
read Caroline Criado Perez's Invisible Women: Data Bias in a World
Designed For Men. Its theme is both basic and pervasive. Males, who
almost always run things, take their gender to be normative and
anything else a trivial distraction in anything from policy writing to
product design. Perez shows us the many ways in which this happens.
Going to the doctor? You may be in for an unpleasant surprise.
Medical devices are designed for men's larger bodies. Many medicines
that have the potential to make a life or death difference are tested
only on males. Even the lab animals are males. Women regularly die
of or suffer for years from doctors deciding that their very real
illnesses are psychomatic. (That chapter was so scary I had to skip a
bunch of paragraphs).
Let's head on to work where the myth of meritocracy rears its
ugly head. Let the guys running the show believe they got there on
their own superiority, and there's no need to correct for gender bias
in hiring or promotions. Women are expected to do more of the stuff
like brewing coffee and taking minutes. Genius bias (whereby people
picture males as such) has a toxic effect on women's evaluations.
Can even snow plowing patterns be sexist? You bet!!! Read the
book and see how.
Those are only a few examples from Invisible Women. From home to
houses of Congress and Parliament our concerns are being totally
ignored. Something has to be done, so more of us need to be woke.
On a purrrsonal note, this has been quite a week so far. Monday I was
a peacekeeper for the first time. College Republicans put some very
aggravating stuff in regard to indiginous peoples on the Internet.
Monday there was a peaceful, educational protest by indigenous people
and allies. Reading Dawnland Voices really got me ready for that!
Peacekeepers were called for because there was reason to fear
disruption. Luckily it didn't happen. Wednesday my daughter, Amber,
and her friends protested a speaker brought in by guess who who had
posted the okayness of rape. (Hey, College Republicans, are you
trying to see how many marginalized groups you can aggravate?)
On Halloween I got to work in costume. I was the fairy who cares for
unicorns with sparkly blue wings and a long, curly wig and a unicorn
shirt. People just LOVED my costume. And I got lots of candy trick
or treating at the Union. At home I watched a Halloween movie, Hocus
Pocus, with Eugene before bed.
Today I woke up to what sounded like a train barreling through. It
turned out to be wicked high winds which are still going on. UMaine
is closed. Only essential personnel need to come in. Luckily I'm not
scheduled to work. If I was I'd be out in that mess. Anna sent out a
call for help but I'm leaving that to people who live on campus or
drive.
Great big shout outs go out to the indigenous students who shared
their knowledge so gracefully and generously, Amber and her feminist
friends, and all who celebrated Halloween up to UMaine. Also to the
best little cat in the world who I missed terribly my first Halloween
without him.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Adult nonfiction
"Most of recorded human history is one big data gap. Starting
with the theory of Man the Hunter, the chronicles of the past have
left little space for women's role in the evolution of humanity,
whether cultural or biological. Instead, the lives of men have been
taken to taken to represent those of humans overall. When it comes to
the lives of the other half of humanity, there is nothing but silence."
If you're a woman (or gender fluid like me) you really need to
read Caroline Criado Perez's Invisible Women: Data Bias in a World
Designed For Men. Its theme is both basic and pervasive. Males, who
almost always run things, take their gender to be normative and
anything else a trivial distraction in anything from policy writing to
product design. Perez shows us the many ways in which this happens.
Going to the doctor? You may be in for an unpleasant surprise.
Medical devices are designed for men's larger bodies. Many medicines
that have the potential to make a life or death difference are tested
only on males. Even the lab animals are males. Women regularly die
of or suffer for years from doctors deciding that their very real
illnesses are psychomatic. (That chapter was so scary I had to skip a
bunch of paragraphs).
Let's head on to work where the myth of meritocracy rears its
ugly head. Let the guys running the show believe they got there on
their own superiority, and there's no need to correct for gender bias
in hiring or promotions. Women are expected to do more of the stuff
like brewing coffee and taking minutes. Genius bias (whereby people
picture males as such) has a toxic effect on women's evaluations.
Can even snow plowing patterns be sexist? You bet!!! Read the
book and see how.
Those are only a few examples from Invisible Women. From home to
houses of Congress and Parliament our concerns are being totally
ignored. Something has to be done, so more of us need to be woke.
On a purrrsonal note, this has been quite a week so far. Monday I was
a peacekeeper for the first time. College Republicans put some very
aggravating stuff in regard to indiginous peoples on the Internet.
Monday there was a peaceful, educational protest by indigenous people
and allies. Reading Dawnland Voices really got me ready for that!
Peacekeepers were called for because there was reason to fear
disruption. Luckily it didn't happen. Wednesday my daughter, Amber,
and her friends protested a speaker brought in by guess who who had
posted the okayness of rape. (Hey, College Republicans, are you
trying to see how many marginalized groups you can aggravate?)
On Halloween I got to work in costume. I was the fairy who cares for
unicorns with sparkly blue wings and a long, curly wig and a unicorn
shirt. People just LOVED my costume. And I got lots of candy trick
or treating at the Union. At home I watched a Halloween movie, Hocus
Pocus, with Eugene before bed.
Today I woke up to what sounded like a train barreling through. It
turned out to be wicked high winds which are still going on. UMaine
is closed. Only essential personnel need to come in. Luckily I'm not
scheduled to work. If I was I'd be out in that mess. Anna sent out a
call for help but I'm leaving that to people who live on campus or
drive.
Great big shout outs go out to the indigenous students who shared
their knowledge so gracefully and generously, Amber and her feminist
friends, and all who celebrated Halloween up to UMaine. Also to the
best little cat in the world who I missed terribly my first Halloween
without him.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Dawnland Voices
Dawnland Voices
"The other thing I wish to add here is that I believe the
paternalistic and patronizing attitude adopted by many White
historians toward the Amerindian intellect is a defensive measure. If
they can convince themselves that the people their ancestors
brutalized, dispossessed, and in many cases exterminated were little
more than savage animals, then they don't have to face up to the
horrors committed by these ancestors. After all, when you simply put
down pests and varmints, who should complain?"
The above quote is from an essay by Daniel Paul which first
appeared in his book on Mi'kmaq history, We Were Not The Savages. (I
plan to read that as soon as I can locate it.) I discovered it in
Dawnland Voices: An Anthology Of Indigenous Writings From New England,
edited by Siobhan Senier. I had been searching for that book for
quite awhile when fortuitously it appeared in the Orono Public Library
as a new acquisition in the space between Indigenous People's Day and
Thanksgiving. It was also when my theories class had studied higher
education theories of race and ethnicity and was gearing up to tackle
religion and spirituality. In other words the timing was purrrfect.
For reasons I will reveal later, reading this book was a life changer
for me. It has now displaced To Kill A Mockingbird which has been my
favorite book in for decades.
Anyway back to the quote. In that piece Paul discusses the
genocide of indigenous peoples by whites including the bounty on
indigenous scalps paid out like in my lifetime money was paid to
hunters for body parts of slain pest animals. He is so right! In
order to commit atrocities while considering oneself a good person and
convince the less blood thirsty members of one's group of the
rightness of the unconscienable, one must demean the doomed. Hitler
alluded to the Jews as vermin in his attempt to wipe them off the face
of the Earth. Slave owners claimed that the blacks were so feeble
minded, heathen, and corrupt they were better off as chattels for
Christians. These days white police officers shoot "thugs".
When I was growing up, although the ongoing genocide was not as
obvious, the demeaning was going on big time. There were these awful
movies in which "injuns" were always up to no good but white hatted
John Wayne was always there to save the day. Television didn't do any
better. Children were encouraged to (or at least not discouraged
from) enacting stereotyped behaviors like those gosh awful war
whoops. In school every year we celebrated Thanksgiving. We made
tacky construction paper and school creations. Many of us
participated in enactions of the Indians keeping the Pilgrims (who
were totally unprepared to occupy their new environment) from
starving. But that was seemingly the only relevant thing they did in
hundreds of years of United States history. And they were supposed to
be gone except for some quaint reservations in places like Arizona
where if you were in the neighborhood you could get turqouise jewelery
dirt cheap.
Of course we kids in our construction paper Pilgrim hats were
never told how the whites repaid the indigenous people for being saved
from death by starvation by embarking on a centuries long campaign of
genocide, theft of land, leaving their hosts bereft of means of
sustenance, and cultural and language destruction. That is one of the
messages of Dawnland Voices. This amazing compilation contains
writings, organized by tribe, that cover the whole history of white-
indigenous relations from when we arrived on the scene, making the
arrogant assumption that we discovered the place, to the much too
current campaigns to "save the man by killing the Indian"'
In Donna Loring's piece we learn that:
"Indians were simply seen as subhuman savages to be disposed
of. Thus began Indian education from the white man's perspective:
educate the Indian in white man's culture and values, and he will
become for all intents and purposes a productive member of white
society. Indian children were forcibly taken from their mothers and
fathers on the reservations and were mentally, physically,
psychologically, spiritually, and even sexually abused. Native people
call this cultural genocide."
That was going on when I was born. And in this part of Maine
Department of Human Service participated in the cultural genocide by
removing indigenous children from families and tribes (probably for
reasons having more to do with cultural differences than actual
neglect or endangerment) and placing them with white foster and
adoptive parents who were totally clueless about their cultural
heritage.
And we call indigenous people savages?
If this was the entirity of Dawnland Voices I would highly
recommend it. We need to know about all that was done to the
indigenous peoples by our people. We can't say "Not my problem. I
didn't do it." Even those of us who didn't personally scalp, hand out
disease laced blankets, or steal land by force and biased legalities
benefit from all that. I go to the University of Maine which is
situated on stolen land.
But there is so much more to the book. One valuable vein of
wisdom is their relationship to the created world. In contrast to the
conquer and plunder mentality embodied in the phrase "manifest
destiny" the indigenous peoples rocked respect and love for all of
creation. Imagine what this country would be like if we too made
decisions based on the welfare of the seventh generation from ours!
There is much we as individuals can learn on mindfullness and
stewardship.
And there is so much more. There are stories of indigenous
people's lived experiences. There is some of the most eloquent poetry
I've ever read. There are even recipes. I plan to try the cranberry
stuffed acorn squash.
So to whom would I recommend this book? I think it's a must
read for all humans with human hearts and minds. I fear that those
who most need its wisdom (like the folks who are pissed off that
Columbus Day is morphing into Indigenous Peoples' Day) will never pick
it up.
On a somewhat long purrrsonal note, I was raised Episcopalian. It
never really took. I picked up early on the racism and classism of my
childhood church. I was bothered by the idea that all who didn't see
impossibly Aryan Jesus as THE WAY were doomed to burn in Hell for all
eternity. At eleven I refused to buy in in the form of confirmation.
I spent much of my life as ambivolent Christian attending when that
aspect of my identity seemed salient and exploring every denomination
from Pentacostal to Unitarian Universalist. I did not have my
children infant baptized because I felt that I didn't have the right
to make that decision for them. I did take them to church some but
when it didn't take I wasn't all that bothered, not having conflated
morality with religiosity. But while my relationship with organized
religion was lukewarm at best and often motivated by a fear of not
living on after death, my spiritual life was on fire. I believed in
an amazing Creator Being not because someone was preaching at me from
the pulpit to, but because I saw His/Her/Their work in the amazingness
of the created world from the perfection of the tiniest shell or
insect to the majesty of the star lit sky. I walk around in a
constant stare of awe. Right now the autumn foliage is taking my
breath away. Working the soil to grow organic veggies to give to
those who need them or receiving water on a parching, hot day feel
like communion. And I believe in the soul living on beyond the death
not because of doctrinal statements, but because I sense the life
flames in the people and other sentient beings around me. When I read
the book I had evolved into a pantheism that incorporated values and
beliefs major world faiths. Fortunately I found a church that is fine
with my unorthodox spirituality, not to mention my gender fluidity
(which the indigenous people had described and respected as two spirit
for ages). But when I read the book and learned of the many people
who feel the way I do it felt like coming home.
I think Joey's story illustrates this. He was given to me as a
birthday gift. I was privileged to have him in my life for sixteen
years. I adored him from the time I first held his just weaned self.
When I learned how much he loved to cuddle my joy knew no bounds.
When he was three he almost died. That was when I learned that he was
and would always be a medically frail, special needs cat. In that
mind that made him all the more precious. But some people questioned
my judgement. Why keep a defective pet (I hate that word with it's
connotation of owning) when I could get another so easily? For the
rest of his life I closely partnered with his vets to give him the
best possible life. Getting up in the morning even on the gloomiest
of days, I would feel joy in my heart at the prospect of seeing the
best little cat in the world. This was especially true when my
children had grown and flown. A lot of people came to know Joey
through my stories and grew to love him. When I learned that he had
cancer I agreed right off with the vet that buying him good time
through appetite enhancing medicine would be the right option as
opposed to extreme measures. For those three months and three days he
was my world. We were there for each other and even made precious
memories. I hated to lose him but was glad that when the end came it
was quick and not dramatic. He simply stopped breathing. He was
touching my arm, I was petting him, and we were looking each other in
the eye. I know I have been forever changed for the better for his
precious presence in his life and intend to honor his memory in how I
live my life as long as I draw breath.
Great big shout outs go out to today's indigenous people who still
have to struggle to survive and keep their heritages and languages
alive and to the best little cat in the world who has left me a far
better person because of his precious presence in my life.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
"The other thing I wish to add here is that I believe the
paternalistic and patronizing attitude adopted by many White
historians toward the Amerindian intellect is a defensive measure. If
they can convince themselves that the people their ancestors
brutalized, dispossessed, and in many cases exterminated were little
more than savage animals, then they don't have to face up to the
horrors committed by these ancestors. After all, when you simply put
down pests and varmints, who should complain?"
The above quote is from an essay by Daniel Paul which first
appeared in his book on Mi'kmaq history, We Were Not The Savages. (I
plan to read that as soon as I can locate it.) I discovered it in
Dawnland Voices: An Anthology Of Indigenous Writings From New England,
edited by Siobhan Senier. I had been searching for that book for
quite awhile when fortuitously it appeared in the Orono Public Library
as a new acquisition in the space between Indigenous People's Day and
Thanksgiving. It was also when my theories class had studied higher
education theories of race and ethnicity and was gearing up to tackle
religion and spirituality. In other words the timing was purrrfect.
For reasons I will reveal later, reading this book was a life changer
for me. It has now displaced To Kill A Mockingbird which has been my
favorite book in for decades.
Anyway back to the quote. In that piece Paul discusses the
genocide of indigenous peoples by whites including the bounty on
indigenous scalps paid out like in my lifetime money was paid to
hunters for body parts of slain pest animals. He is so right! In
order to commit atrocities while considering oneself a good person and
convince the less blood thirsty members of one's group of the
rightness of the unconscienable, one must demean the doomed. Hitler
alluded to the Jews as vermin in his attempt to wipe them off the face
of the Earth. Slave owners claimed that the blacks were so feeble
minded, heathen, and corrupt they were better off as chattels for
Christians. These days white police officers shoot "thugs".
When I was growing up, although the ongoing genocide was not as
obvious, the demeaning was going on big time. There were these awful
movies in which "injuns" were always up to no good but white hatted
John Wayne was always there to save the day. Television didn't do any
better. Children were encouraged to (or at least not discouraged
from) enacting stereotyped behaviors like those gosh awful war
whoops. In school every year we celebrated Thanksgiving. We made
tacky construction paper and school creations. Many of us
participated in enactions of the Indians keeping the Pilgrims (who
were totally unprepared to occupy their new environment) from
starving. But that was seemingly the only relevant thing they did in
hundreds of years of United States history. And they were supposed to
be gone except for some quaint reservations in places like Arizona
where if you were in the neighborhood you could get turqouise jewelery
dirt cheap.
Of course we kids in our construction paper Pilgrim hats were
never told how the whites repaid the indigenous people for being saved
from death by starvation by embarking on a centuries long campaign of
genocide, theft of land, leaving their hosts bereft of means of
sustenance, and cultural and language destruction. That is one of the
messages of Dawnland Voices. This amazing compilation contains
writings, organized by tribe, that cover the whole history of white-
indigenous relations from when we arrived on the scene, making the
arrogant assumption that we discovered the place, to the much too
current campaigns to "save the man by killing the Indian"'
In Donna Loring's piece we learn that:
"Indians were simply seen as subhuman savages to be disposed
of. Thus began Indian education from the white man's perspective:
educate the Indian in white man's culture and values, and he will
become for all intents and purposes a productive member of white
society. Indian children were forcibly taken from their mothers and
fathers on the reservations and were mentally, physically,
psychologically, spiritually, and even sexually abused. Native people
call this cultural genocide."
That was going on when I was born. And in this part of Maine
Department of Human Service participated in the cultural genocide by
removing indigenous children from families and tribes (probably for
reasons having more to do with cultural differences than actual
neglect or endangerment) and placing them with white foster and
adoptive parents who were totally clueless about their cultural
heritage.
And we call indigenous people savages?
If this was the entirity of Dawnland Voices I would highly
recommend it. We need to know about all that was done to the
indigenous peoples by our people. We can't say "Not my problem. I
didn't do it." Even those of us who didn't personally scalp, hand out
disease laced blankets, or steal land by force and biased legalities
benefit from all that. I go to the University of Maine which is
situated on stolen land.
But there is so much more to the book. One valuable vein of
wisdom is their relationship to the created world. In contrast to the
conquer and plunder mentality embodied in the phrase "manifest
destiny" the indigenous peoples rocked respect and love for all of
creation. Imagine what this country would be like if we too made
decisions based on the welfare of the seventh generation from ours!
There is much we as individuals can learn on mindfullness and
stewardship.
And there is so much more. There are stories of indigenous
people's lived experiences. There is some of the most eloquent poetry
I've ever read. There are even recipes. I plan to try the cranberry
stuffed acorn squash.
So to whom would I recommend this book? I think it's a must
read for all humans with human hearts and minds. I fear that those
who most need its wisdom (like the folks who are pissed off that
Columbus Day is morphing into Indigenous Peoples' Day) will never pick
it up.
On a somewhat long purrrsonal note, I was raised Episcopalian. It
never really took. I picked up early on the racism and classism of my
childhood church. I was bothered by the idea that all who didn't see
impossibly Aryan Jesus as THE WAY were doomed to burn in Hell for all
eternity. At eleven I refused to buy in in the form of confirmation.
I spent much of my life as ambivolent Christian attending when that
aspect of my identity seemed salient and exploring every denomination
from Pentacostal to Unitarian Universalist. I did not have my
children infant baptized because I felt that I didn't have the right
to make that decision for them. I did take them to church some but
when it didn't take I wasn't all that bothered, not having conflated
morality with religiosity. But while my relationship with organized
religion was lukewarm at best and often motivated by a fear of not
living on after death, my spiritual life was on fire. I believed in
an amazing Creator Being not because someone was preaching at me from
the pulpit to, but because I saw His/Her/Their work in the amazingness
of the created world from the perfection of the tiniest shell or
insect to the majesty of the star lit sky. I walk around in a
constant stare of awe. Right now the autumn foliage is taking my
breath away. Working the soil to grow organic veggies to give to
those who need them or receiving water on a parching, hot day feel
like communion. And I believe in the soul living on beyond the death
not because of doctrinal statements, but because I sense the life
flames in the people and other sentient beings around me. When I read
the book I had evolved into a pantheism that incorporated values and
beliefs major world faiths. Fortunately I found a church that is fine
with my unorthodox spirituality, not to mention my gender fluidity
(which the indigenous people had described and respected as two spirit
for ages). But when I read the book and learned of the many people
who feel the way I do it felt like coming home.
I think Joey's story illustrates this. He was given to me as a
birthday gift. I was privileged to have him in my life for sixteen
years. I adored him from the time I first held his just weaned self.
When I learned how much he loved to cuddle my joy knew no bounds.
When he was three he almost died. That was when I learned that he was
and would always be a medically frail, special needs cat. In that
mind that made him all the more precious. But some people questioned
my judgement. Why keep a defective pet (I hate that word with it's
connotation of owning) when I could get another so easily? For the
rest of his life I closely partnered with his vets to give him the
best possible life. Getting up in the morning even on the gloomiest
of days, I would feel joy in my heart at the prospect of seeing the
best little cat in the world. This was especially true when my
children had grown and flown. A lot of people came to know Joey
through my stories and grew to love him. When I learned that he had
cancer I agreed right off with the vet that buying him good time
through appetite enhancing medicine would be the right option as
opposed to extreme measures. For those three months and three days he
was my world. We were there for each other and even made precious
memories. I hated to lose him but was glad that when the end came it
was quick and not dramatic. He simply stopped breathing. He was
touching my arm, I was petting him, and we were looking each other in
the eye. I know I have been forever changed for the better for his
precious presence in his life and intend to honor his memory in how I
live my life as long as I draw breath.
Great big shout outs go out to today's indigenous people who still
have to struggle to survive and keep their heritages and languages
alive and to the best little cat in the world who has left me a far
better person because of his precious presence in my life.
jules hathaway
Sent from my iPod
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)