Heresy Schmeresy

I am so not into heresy. I am so not into orthodoxy. I am so tired of both of those words. They are tired, worn out, meaningless bits of vocabulary. Blah, blah, blah.

One person's heresy is another's orthodoxy. Who gets to proudly wear the orthodoxy label? Usually it's either the majority or the people that scream the loudest. The problem is the majority is always shifting. And people who scream aren't fun to be around. So I just don't get excited when someone starts frothing at the mouth and shouting heresy.

Anyway, all this pondering comes about because of a horrible accident that occurred this morning. I went downstairs to make coffee (yes, I actually brought coffee up to Ben this morning) and I turned on the radio because silence is unacceptable. (Someday I'm going to work on this part of my personality.) I switched from the FM npr to the AM npr because FM is fundraising right now. But alas I tuned the radio just a little too high on the dial and heard a slightly southern voice oozing from the speakers. It was still early so my reaction time was a little slow and I walked over to make the coffee without realizing that I was listening to Christian radio.

Oh, Christian radio.

Before I could remedy the situation I was already sucked into their sick little world. It's like rubbernecking on the highway to see the carnage of some ghastly car wreck you know you really don't want to see but you just can't stop yourself from looking at. They were talking about the DaVinci Code. The DaVinci Code! I am so bored by the DaVinci Code. Can we move on already!
I actually have read the book, although it was only because we found it at the thrift store for a dollar and we wanted to know what people were so excited about. I was profoundly disappointed.

Here were my problems with the sad, tired book that is the DaVinci Code in order of importance--

1. It wasn't well written and the author just kept the tension going the whole time. Even if I knew exactly what was going to happen next it was tense and I just felt like I had to get to the next chapter. By the end I was exhausted and for no reason.

2. His arguments were completely weak. It was just a big these-people-say-this-but-these-other-people-say-this -and-none-of-us-can-really-prove-anything-but- we-all-get-so-excited-about-it. You're gonna have to do better than that to get me upset about something.

3. Mary Magdalene as Mother Goddess. The whole titillating point of this Jesus/Mary Magdalene sex fest was the assertion that Jesus was not God and he was just this regular guy that had sex, procreated, died and stayed dead. So Mary M. was living proof of this complete carnal mortality and that's why she's so controversial. Except that then the author turns around and makes Mary into a mother goddess. I could understand if folks were saying Mary and the supposed Jesus Jr. prove Jesus wasn't divine. That makes sense. But then why the heck are they making Mary divine? Was she worthy of worship because Jesus actually was God and, because they did the do together, she was a goddess by default? Or everybody got it wrong and Jesus wasn't God and it was Mary that was God? I totally don't get it. You can't have your argument both ways folks. (And anyway didn't another Mary already have God's baby? So passe.)

4. Mother Goddess worship as more lovey dovey than Father God worship. The whole book made it seem like things just got a heck of a lot worse when this patriarchal thing (i.e. Christianity) started taking off. Let me remind people before Christianity took off and mother goddess worship was still quite popular there was a lot of human sacrificing going on, and still a lot of war and still a lot of nasty people having sex with white horses to prove something or other and still a lot of burning widows on their husband's funeral pyres and still a lot of, well, you get my point. Not that all of Christian history was happy, happy (you'll never find me saying that) but neither was goddess worship a bunch of peaceful tree hugging people.

So it seems to me that anyone with half a brain would see this book as a very weak argument at best and at worse a crappy piece of poorly written fiction.

Why are people so upset? Christians go around like they're under siege. There's a demon under every doily! Watch out! This latest controversy is going to sink Christianity for sure if we don't fight it!

I'm sorry but that makes Christianity seem like a pretty pathetic religion if we have to be afraid of Dan Brown and his poor use of the English language. They're acting like people are just losing their faith left and right because of this book. Like people who had lasting faith are going to be taken in by a book that says Mary Magdalene is a goddess buried under the Louvre. And if someone lost their faith over this argument then they'd lose their faith over anything. Focus on the Family ain't gonna argue them back into the fold. (And if other people would like to get into worshipping goddesses and use that as an excuse to get together in their basements and stand in a circle while old, fat people have sex on an altar in the middle, why is that James Dobson's problem? Unless he's afraid the temptation to do so would just be too overpowering for him and all his Christian radio buddies.)

Why are so many Christians wasting their time over things like this? They act like words and intellectual belief are what Jesus was aiming for. Like these things save the world. There are people out there starving to death, folks! Hello! Go raise some money and feed the poor and show God's love. Then no argument can touch you. You'd be above the fray like Jesus was. Instead you're wasting your time and wasting your money funding broadcasting and books nobody outside the church pays attention to anyway, AND you're making me talk about a subject that bores the crap out of me AND you're making me angry. So stop it!

9 Days of a Feminine Power Trip

Happy Navaratri Everyone

Durga

Saraswati

Lakshmi

Bit O' Education

Aldi--Ghetto Supermarket Paradise for Po' Folk Like Me

I really love shopping at Aldi. It's so liberating not to have choices. There are choices, of course, just not the thousands that you get at a regular grocery store. For example, spaghetti sauce. You've got three choices: regular, meat or mushroom. That's it. Choose and get on with your life. There's no brand competition, there are no price differences to debate over, there's no reason to loiter there in the aisle with your jaw hanging open as your eyes glaze over and get dusty before you can decide. Choice is overrated.

Then there's the atmosphere. A strange combination of poor people, rich people, and all sorts of ethnicities all shopping for the super bargains and digging through the sub-par produce together. It's a beautiful thing to see some lady who drove up in her Lexus putting in a quarter to get her grocery cart. It's like an egalitarian high going to Aldi.

And there's nothing like Aldi cashiers. It's such a casual atmosphere (I mean, most of the items are stacked on pallets instead of shelves, who can be uptight there?) that the cashiers feel free to just chat or ask you how you like a certain product. "Oh, have you tried those hashbrowns before? They're great. I fry them instead of bake them though."

They always comment if one of us happens to be shopping without our kids. "You're free tonight." "Where are your girls? Well, next time you bring them, okay. Tell 'em I said hi." And if the kids are there it's all about them, "How are you, sweetheart? What did you do today? Are you still homeschooling? Is it fun? My niece is homeschooled . . ." It's crazy. One lady was even bribing Evie with potato chips because she would never smile at her. And the kids are calling one cashier Aunty Mary. (But I can't blame them because she's so sweet and has the perfect grandmother face with beautiful white hair to match. Her face looks like it belongs on a package of ginger snaps.)

Cashiers even feel free to gripe to customers in line about other customers. One day there was a little boy who threw a mega fit because he couldn't get some candy. His parents panicked and bought it for him. After the family left the cashier just shook her head. "Well that little kid didn't learn anything. He just found out if he screams he gets whatever he wants." Everyone in line agreed and then a customer said, "I think that kid needs a spanking not candy." Can you imagine this delightful conversation occurring anywhere but Aldi?

And I'll always remember my favorite cashier. (We moved and now don't have the pleasure of shopping at her Aldi anymore.) Just imagine a very, very loud woman from Brooklyn--kind of like Mike Myers Coffee Talk lady on a loudspeaker. Her voice would just reverberate all over the store. She always had chocolate to eat and wasn't shy about sharing with customers in line. One day she was talking to a customer about how chocolate was all she ate and said in her fabulous voice, "Chocolate and water, that's it . . .Oh and cheese!"

And besides the classic white trash items (I just wanted to say that so I could use white trash two posts in a row) like hash and canned chili, they do have a lot of foo foo choices like sweet onion artichoke salsa and german tarts and vidalia onion vinaigrette. It helps to maintain the perfect ying-yang balance that is Aldi. Cheap and Foo Foo. Rich and Poor. White and Everything Other than White. It's really marvelous.

I feel so blessed that I get to shop at my preppy Aldi. I know some (maybe most) are in scary parts of town, but I think everyone should shop at Aldi at least sometimes. Find one near you. It's therapeutic.

I'm Needy!

Some sort of horrible transformation has occurred when I wasn't looking. Somehow I became the kind of person who needs other people. I've become soft. Weak and sniveling. I'm now the kind of person that doesn't cringe inside when someone hugs me. (Okay, there are some people who hug me and I want to vomit and/or hit them with something substantial--but that's only some people.) I even initiate hugs. I need hugs!

I've become the kind of person that lets a friend give me a neck massage. (I can never imagine going somewhere and paying a professional to do this though, even if my neck was killing me. And if a heterosexual man, friend or not, tried to rub my back I would chop off his hands and feed them to him. So I still have some standards.)

(Ha, ha. This is kind of on the same subject but not really but I'll put it in anyway. I had a splitting headache one day over at Anita's and I couldn't eat lunch because it was making me nauseous. The overdose of Advil I took wasn't working so she offered to give me a head massage. No joke. I'd seen her do it before, but I was hesitant. Pain can drive you to do all sorts of things, however. So she heated up some coconut oil and massaged my head and it really worked. It was amazing! Only my eyes still hurt and I am not going to get an eye massage. Then I looked like a greasy freak and went home to wash my hair four times to get the oil out. Later that evening over dinner Ben asked Moira if anything interesting had happened during the day and she said, "Well, Mommy got a massage with oil." "WHAT!?!")

I've become the kind of person who needs to talk to people . . . frequently. I get lonely now! I'm lonely right now--isn't that great! Oh wait, Ben just got home. I'm not lonely. But I still require other adults besides my husband. Isn't that great?

I've become, for lack of a better word, an Aunty. (All the kids I know from the Indian subcontinent have to call women Aunty rather than their names as a sign of respect. Not that that makes them respectful when they say "Aunty, I think somebody needs to go on a diet." And not like that makes me respectable when I then chase them all over the house and tackle them.) When my friends are sick or worried I smooth their hair and kiss their foreheads and bring them food in glass casserole dishes. I'm nurturing!

I still feel really frozen and unnatural when I first meet people. And it does take me a while to warm up and become friends, but I think I can do this friendship thing after all. I've always wanted to be like that girl that Juliette Lewis played in What's Eating Gilbert Grape. The one who goes around accepting people and being this wonderful comfortable person that everyone else feels comfortable around. Sort of like a non-irritating white trash Pollyanna. I'm white trash, I could do it! It'll probably take me another 60 years to get there though. But I can see myself hobbling around the nursing home patting people's hands and smoothing their hair and helping the blind lady play bingo.

I think there's hope for me after all.

Vicki Compton

Vicki Compton died. I just found out. I really didn't know her, I only knew of her, but here I am crying my eyes out.

Vicki was an honest-to-goodness miracle. A temporary miracle.

She was only in her mid-thirties, young, healthy, active. She had a husband and a 4 year old daughter.

Vicki became a Christian in a big way. The Vicki before Jesus and Vicki after Jesus were completely different stories. She was so excited, so full of God's spirit and energy. She was the one in church to stand up during the music when no one else was.

At our church the music leader doesn't always tell people to stand. At first I found this really frustrating. I don't like singing while sitting down. It just feels wrong and out-of-it, like trying to run really fast when you're up to your waist in water or driving a car when you're so tired you're almost hallucinating. But then I started to see that there were people standing. One person here, one person there, just as they felt moved. Most of the time it creates a ripple effect and before you know it everyone is standing and that heavy weird feeling is gone.

Well Vicki was one of those brave people willing to risk feeling stupid by standing alone in a room full of people who may or may not follow suit. She said she felt embarrassed at first. But, at the same time, she just couldn't help herself. She felt like Jesus had done so much for her--how could she just sit there? So she stood. And she celebrated.

One day Vicki was jogging and something felt wrong. It got so bad that she went to the doctor and it turned out she had cancer. So one day she's out there jogging and two weeks later she's dying in hospice watching her husband and little girl play outside through the window.

Our pastor told us about Vicki's illness as a request for prayer and as an illustration. You've got one shot in this life and you don't want to waste it. You just don't know when your time will be up.

So here's Vicki dying of cancer and still so full of faith that people in her life are just falling all over themselves to become Christians. It was absolute Spirit-filled madness.

And after hearing all of this I think the whole church thought the same thing I did--No.
No, this does not have to happen. No, Vicki does not have to leave us. No, Vicki's light on this earth does not have to end. Not now. No. No. No. No. No.

So we prayed. We prayed in faith and hope and knowledge that God hears and God loves us and God loves Vicki and Vicki's husband and Vicki's little girl and all the people Vicki's touched. All week I prayed and just kept thinking, Am I too late? Is this all in vain? Has she already died and I just haven't heard yet and here I am begging God to spare someone that's already gone?

The following weekend I was full of hope and dread but mostly hope. It just felt so right praying for her to be healed, like a no-brainer. Of course God will listen. At the end of the service the pastor began to talk about Vicki. Something in the way he spoke made me nervous. I thought, This is it. I was wrong. She's gone. But then he said a miracle had occurred, not only was Vicki out of hospice but she was at the service that night.

Oh God, did we cry. The whole church just stood up and cried and clapped and cried some more. We were applauding Vicki for her courage and God for His miracle and I think we were applauding ourselves a little bit too because we asked for that miracle.

She was on the far side of the room too weak to stand but not to speak. They gave her a mic and she talked about Jesus and how thankful she was and how wonderful God was and that whatever happened, He was with her. It was a miracle. A miracle I was sure would stick.

But it didn't.

Months later (long enough that I was sure she was going to make it through just fine) she took a turn for the worse. Once again she surpassed medical expectations and recovered significantly, but in the end the cancer got the best of her. And she's gone.

Late Saturday night her family watched her go to be with the God she loved so much.

I don't know how to feel. I know God is good. I know He cares. I know He's crying right along with us. But I also feel like we lost. We went to bat for Vicki. We got on our knees and did all that we could. And we lost. In the end God did not comply. I am reminded that God is not and never will be the genie in the bottle. Our wishes are not guaranteed. And it's scary and unpalatable and altogether shitty. But I believe.

God is good. God is our Father. And in this world of no safety nets He will catch us in the weirdest most unpredictable ways.

I believe.

It's all I can say right now. Over and over and over. I believe. I believe. I believe.

Vicki believed.

I believe.

3 Whole Days!

I'm sitting here in front of the computer at 10 minutes to midnight drinking a huge cup of coffee and eating candy that my grandmother gave us and almost certainly intended for my children to eat, but not feeling the least bit guilty or irresponsible. (Candy's bad for kids anyway.)

Ben, however, is sleeping, because he is responsible and he knows that he has to get to work early tomorrow. That means no coffee in bed for me. My husband is too good to me sometimes. Okay, my husband is too good to me almost every morning because he brings up coffee to my lazy-no-good self while I snooze in bed for far too long. But then he complains that he wants an Indian wife.

I was over at Anita's one day wasting time, of course, when Ben knocked at the door. He had just gotten home from school and needed the house key to get in. I gave it to him and stayed put, because I wasn't done wasting time yet. Neena was over and just laughed. She said an Indian wife always serves her husband when he gets home, gives him his tea and anything else he needs, but an American wife just says hi and goes on doing whatever she was doing. I made the mistake of telling Ben this and now he's always asking for an Indian wife. I want an Indian wife, where do I get an Indian wife? Anita said even if he got an Indian wife he'd just make her cook and clean and then cheat on her with me. Well, duh.

You'll never find me making jokes about wanting an Indian husband though. I couldn't take it. I mean, I offer to make Ben a lot of coffee. I clean the house (sometimes) and do the laundry (once in a while) and do all the cooking and make the majority of the coffee and tea and powdered drink mixes so I am a good American wife. I'm not calling for equal duty on the housework by any means. But if he went around demanding tea or chastising me because the kitchen was messy, he'd be in for it. I was telling Ben about just such an Indian husband incident and language my husband didn't know I knew came tumbling out of my mouth, so obviously I'm just not cut out for complete servitude.

But I'll have you know that my house has been utterly and completely (redundantly) clean for 3 whole days. Anita chastised me for the hundredth time for not being a good wife, for being lazy and for reading too much. "You're not a student so you don't need to read. Clean your house. And if your house isn't clean then don't go out. Don't study Hindi. Don't read. Don't come to my house until your work is done. You lazy girl." All of this said with the utmost affection, of course.

Then she threatened to call my mom. To which I replied--"Like that'll do any good. Where do you think I learned this from? My mom is worse than me!" And it's true. All of my poor housekeeping skills I learned from my mother. If being neat is based on genetics, I am screwed. I just don't have the instincts. I can look at something messy and intellectually acknowledge that it is gross and that no normal person could possibly live this way and then just walk away. I have this theory that normal people see a mess and it bothers them enough that they have to do something about it. Even if they don't really feel like it or they don't have the energy, if the mess is bad enough they have to clean it up. I just don't feel that compulsion . . . ever. I am a certified slob/bad wife/bad mother, you name it.

But this latest lecture from Anita I actually took to heart. I really do want people to be able to just drop by without it causing me a minor stroke, without me thinking--shoo, shoo, get out, can't you see my house is a pit?

So I cleaned my house. (I had to--Anita was coming.) But even after Anita left I kept it clean. I even cleaned more things. I cleaned the upstairs bathroom for goodness sake. There are no toothpaste globs anywhere to be seen. (The kids inevitably drop the toothpaste cap in the trash can or the toilet as soon as we get a new tube. Either way it's irretrievable. And who could put a cap on that big glob of goo they push out the top anyway. Eventually it just looks like some horrible model volcano for science fair--but does that compel me to clean it? Nope, I just walk away. But not this time.) I faced that goo head on and I conquered!

My house is so stinkin' clean it's ridiculous. And I've become a real harpy about it, swooping down on my unsuspecting children and spouse--"Ben, hang up your coat! Moira, does this belong here? Evie, why are there peanuts all over the bathroom floor?" (Oddly enough, that peanut thing has occured more than once.)

And you know what, I still have time to read. I find there are times when I actually have nothing to do because everything is already clean. It's strangely exhilarating. Someone could drop by right now and I would only have to stress over not having make up on. (Well, if they dropped by right now I'd also have to worry about being in pajamas and it being midnight and kind of strange for someone to be dropping by, but other than that it would be fine.) I can goof off with the kids and not have that nagging feeling like I should be doing something else. I can sit down with a book and not have a twinge of guilt over the housework I'm ignoring but have no energy to tackle. I am a domestic diva!

I just hope I can keep it up. But even if I don't, I know Ben will still love me. He has to--he's a slob too.

Family Oddities and My Grandmother's 80th Birthday Party

Last night we celebrated my grandma's 80th birthday at Red Lobster. The staff had to put together this enormous line of tables in the center of one of the rooms. We had 20 people including all the kids, and I felt really bad for all the other diners there. If they were looking for a quiet, peaceful dinner they had chosen the wrong night to visit the mecca of midwestern sea food. There were babies crying and kids running around, cameras flashing, relatives yelling down the table at other relatives who couldn't hear them because they were yelling down the table at someone else. Absolute chaos. Then later I looked at our pictures (I usually let the kids run around with the camera since it's digital and I can just delete the crummy pictures) and I find out that Evie had been taking pictures of complete strangers sitting in the booths eating their dinners. "Who are these people?"

We seemed to have a lot of those "Who is that?" moments. First was this girl by the lobster concentration camp tank. One of my Uncles has quite a large family and I don't see some of my cousins very often so I frequently don't recognize faces because they've grown or matured so much since I saw them last. So this girl was standing next to my Uncle and just chatting to him and my kids about the lobsters and I'm thinking "Is that Hannah? Wow, she's grown." But no, she was just a complete yet very friendly stranger.

Then my other Uncle came in with his family along with another lady we didn't know. But she really seemed to think she belonged to our group. There were no introductions or anything. My grandmother was whispering "I think that lady said hello to me, but I don't know who she is. Do you know who she is? I don't know who she is." We didn't find out until much later that she was a friend of my Aunt's. But it was interesting how no one talked to her and yet she was accepted. It was like one of those National Geographic documentaries where the foreign insect is able to come into the ant hill without being attacked because it's covered itself with ant scent.

Another interesting observation involved seating arrangements. I sat with the kids down at the end against the wall so we wouldn't get in the way. Then everyone else filed in. My parents sat next to us. When my sister and her boyfriend came, they sat next to us. And everyone else sat down in their own family groupings. I asked my mom, "Why do we sit next to the people we see all the time? Why aren't we mixing this up and talking to people we don't get to usually spend time with?" My mom's answer--"Because we keep to our own." And then she just laughed. We keep to our own? What does that mean? I began to think we really were in some sort of ant colony. I just wanted to go up and smell people to try to figure out what scent I wasn't picking up on.

Finally the night was over and we thanked the hard working waiters and waitresses. My grandma thanked the tall, attractive black waiter and gave him a hug. (Later she kept talking about it. I think she was feeling very cool because she hugged a black guy. My grandmother is very, very, very white in every sense of the word.) Anyway, he was very sweet and asked "How old are you? 27?" She said, "I'm 80 years old." Then he asked, "Do you have a husband?" Instead of playing along and pretending she was really getting hit on she had to say in a sad voice "No, he passed away." So this poor waiter had to apologize and say he was only kidding and he was very sorry about that, etc., etc. AAAAAAAA!

But that's my family. And I guess our motto is "We Keep To Our Own" or maybe it should be "We Keep To Our Own Even Though We Talk to Strangers, Hug Strangers, Take Pictures of Strangers and Invite Non-Relatives to the Birthday Party of Someone They've Never Met."

I guess that's pretty normal for us.

Happy Birthday, Grandma!

Can't Get Enough of This Prawn, Okay

I Finished It!

I finally got through When Jesus Became God by Richard Rubenstein and I'm feelin' pretty good about myself. Somehow this man turned a story about a whole list of emperors and a whole list of bishops and various clergy meeting in too many councils to name, wrangling over words like homoousios and hypostases, excommunicating each other left and right, going into exile and sneaking back from exile, inciting riots and seizing power into a page turner.

Well, it was a page turner by day but not by night. That's why it took me so long to finish it. I kept thinking "This book is incredibly good" and then falling asleep. You just can't keep all those names and arguments straight while lying in bed at 10:00.

So I decided on a novel approach--read during the day. I couldn't squeeze in much time while the kids were awake, but at least I stopped reading the same five pages over and over again.

Anyway, I've finished it and I feel sick. Christian history is so . . . not Christian at times.

Christianity is just incompatible with political/military power. As soon as you hook the two together the Christian part is going to suffer. True Christianity has never and never will be the religion of the powerful.

That's why I have such a problem with the Christian Right and the way it aligns itself with politics. Even if it wasn't all about power, the idea of legislating morality is really bizarre. Jesus said "Go out into the world and make disciples" not "Seize power and force people to be moral." (I really don't think half of what the Christian Right does is moral anyway. They have abortion and gay marriage tunnel vision. The poor and oppressed just aren't on their radar screens, let alone the environment or peace. They want to save the unborn, but don't care to give the born a chance at redemption. Can't we do both?)

Christianity is not a top-down religion. Sometimes you can order someone to do something that's right or at least keep them from doing something that's wrong, but does that change what's in their heart? You can't pass a law that makes someone have faith. And isn't faith what Christianity is all about? Isn't that where all the other loving, good and moral deeds spring from?

Christianity works from the bottom up, one relationship at a time, one good deed at a time. That's where our energy (and money) should go--not to a political party.

Does this mean that I won't vote. No, I'll probably always vote. But I take it with a grain of salt. It's really a nightmare trying to decide who to vote for. One person champions something that God definitely wants and at the same time supports something God hates. Politics are so imperfect, that for me there's just no way to come out feeling completely satisfied that I've done the right thing.

And I definitely don't go into the voting booth thinking I can somehow help to preserve a Christian country. This country was never a Christian country; there's no such thing, in my opinion. The only Christian thing this country had going for it were some words invoking God. As if God cared that British taxes were too high. As if God was on the side of people willing to kill others for their rights then turn around and massacre the natives for their land and enslave Africans to tend it. A shining example of Christian values.

So . . . where was my point here? Oh, I finally finished my book. Hooray for me!

Psychological Survey

What does this symbol mean to you?


Does it mean . . .

this?


Or this?



Or does it mean . . .


this?

I know that the swastika was around a long time before the Nazi's took it over. I know it's a very auspicious symbol for many people, including Hindus, Buddhists and some Native American religions.

But it still gives me the creeps.

I have several Hindu friends that put this symbol on their doorsteps outside. So I get to look at swastikas a lot. I know I should be open minded. I know that I should let their culture be their culture, but at the same time I really hate the swastika.

Hindus I've met in this country know that this symbol doesn't carry the happiest of connotations. Even if they don't know the exact details they just say "Americans don't like this symbol."

Yeah, I don't like it. I know Ben doesn't like it. I know Jews aren't crazy about it. But how is everyone else feeling about the swastika these days? I know there have been people in the U.S. trying to "reclaim" it and restore the old meanings--good luck, auspicious blessings, etc. But is that really possible when there are still people like the neo-nazis that use it the way Hitler did?

Anita and I have had way too many swastika conversations. I have broken all post-modern and open-minded taboos and asked her not to put it on her doorstep because many people in this country find it very offensive. Am I wrong? I would willingly choose not to display a Christian symbol if I knew it would be offensive. (There have been times when I have actually done this.) Not because I am ashamed, but because I know a symbol I hold dear can actually carry baggage for another person or culture. Symbols can be very powerful. Why be offensive unnecessarily?

And that's how I feel about the swastika. Why put it on your doorstep if it gives your neighbors the shivers?

But I might be wrong. Maybe people aren't freaked out by the swastika. But as long as guys like this are around spreading hate and fear, can we really just put all those negative connotations to rest?

I would really like to know how you feel about it. Am I just overreacting?

Saving the World One Bengali Kid At A Time

This is my son Ariful.

Okay, Ben reminded me that Ariful is actually not my son.





I have a problem with taking too much responsibility for other people. Ariful, for example, is completely dependent on me to help him with his homework. His mom doesn’t speak English and his dad works so much he’s never home in time to help Ariful in the evenings.

Yes, his mom should learn English. She’s been in the country for six years, all her kids are citizens, and this family is not going anywhere SO it would make sense for her to get serious about learning English. However, she has two small kids ages 2 and 1 that are handfuls (to put it nicely) and no transportation to get to ESL classes(because her husband works all the time). Her house is so chaotic with the kids that I’ve pretty much given up on teaching her English myself. (And now I’m also a little nervous going over there and getting offered salmonella tea. Yes, I should get over this, but old paranoia dies hard.)

I recognize that I cannot control how much Ariful’s dad works or the fact that his mom can’t help him with school. So I help him with school. Nobody else is going to do it (or at least do it correctly). Besides, I like to teach kids and I like to help people out. But sometimes I do cross the line.

Last night, for example, Ariful came over to get help with homework. His teacher sent home a paper saying that they had been studying money as a class and Ariful was having difficulty. Further down on the paper was a list of things the class had studied with check marks next to the skills Ariful had not mastered. There was a check mark next to every single one. The teacher then proceeded to say that they were finished studying money and were moving on, i.e. good luck teaching your kid this stuff on your own, I’m finished.

I was irate. I was irate and Ben was confused. I kept ranting about the responsibility of the teacher to make sure students understand a subject before moving on, to alert parents if a child is falling behind in a subject before the unit is finished, to give parents some ideas of resources to use to help their struggling child instead of just washing their hands of it, etc. etc. etc.

Ben came down on the teacher’s side. She does have 25 other students and can’t possibly hold up the whole class for just a few struggling students. That’s public school. I replied with “That sucks!” He replied with “Well, that’s why you homeschool.”

Hmmm. He had a point there. “But I can’t homeschool Ariful.” And he answered with another profound point. “Yes, because he’s not your kid.”

Oh.

“Well, who else is going to make sure he’s educated?”

This is my problem. If no one else is going to do it, it’s going to be me. And that’s fine to a point. But I can’t save the world single-handedly even though I want to. And when I try, my blood pressure skyrockets and I make Ben suffer by ranting at him for something he has no control over either.

So did I learn my lesson? Not really. Ariful is coming over every day for as long as it takes to get this money thing down. Yeah, he’s not my kid. But so what. At least I’ve decided not to beat up his teacher. That’s something.

TOP TEN REASONS I WOULD LIKE TO WEAR A BURKA

1. I wouldn't have to wear make-up.

2. I wouldn't have to worry about my hair.

3. I would never have to ask "Do I look fat in this?" because, of course, I do.

4. I would never have to worry about bending over and my shirt lifting up in the back and flashing people--I hate that.

5. I could say "BOO!" and really scare the crap out of little kids.

6. It would never matter if my shoes matched my clothes.

7. I could make faces at people and they would never know.

8. I would feel very mysterious.

9. I could go to very conservative Islamic countries and not get beat up.

10. I would look so cool on a jungle gym.

This Was St. Patrick's Day?

I wasn't aware that this was St. Patrick's Day. I didn't even have an inkling.

But Ben did--he even wore a green shirt to work today. They had a green themed pot luck which included the following:

Pizza from Adriatico's (muy tasty)
A broccoli/cheesy casserole thing
A pasta salad
Neon green cornbread
Chip and dip acoutraments
And various green desserts


This entire day I have had the following:

Some tortilla chips
A cookie


I need a job.

Kuch Kuch Hota Hai

I realize that last post was a little bitter and I apologize. I'm feeling a lot better now. Not really because I've been able to work anything out but because I watched Kuch Kuch Hota Hai.

Yesterday Evie had a fever and generally just felt lousy. By evening she was so bored I proposed borrowing a movie from Aunty(Anita). Most 3 year olds would probably like to watch movies in English but not Evie. She can't read the subtitles but she still laughs and cries in all the right places.

But last night was interesting because Moira and I got to experience Bollywood the way Evie does. Instead of watching Hungama for the hundredth time, Evie decided she wanted to see something else. So we picked Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. (I'd been wanting to see it anyway.) But we got it home and realized there was no subtitle option on the dvd. But Evie was sick and that is what she wanted to watch . . .

That movie was 3 hours long.

That movie was 3 hours long and there were flashbacks.



We spent a good 45 minutes being completely confused. But it was classic Bollywood so you just couldn't help but enjoy it--with or without the language barrier. I mean, it's not like these movies are subtle--if you can't figure it out, you've got a problem. As one Indian woman wisely told me, "When you watch a Hindi movie, you have to check your brain at the door." And if you can get past that, there's nothing like a cheesy Hindi movie to put you in a good mood.

Kuch Kuch Hota Hai has everything a proper Bollywood movie should have. Not only is there Sharukh Khan, there's Salman Khan too. (And Kajol, whom I affectionately refer to as "that eyebrow girl" was absolutely adorable.) Sharukh Khan cries at least 20 times and nobody, nobody cries like Sharukh Khan. There's the typical love triangle. There are scenes in the rain. There are scenes with Sharukh Khan crying in the rain. (What could be more perfect than that?) There are windy scenes with saris waving (quite essential) and very cute kids. It has plenty of songs. And of course, everything works out in the end even if they have to kill off somebody to do it.

But my absolute favorite scene is when the fiancee lets his woman marry the man she truly loves on his OWN wedding day.

"Hey, Angali is crying, hey Rahul is here and he's crying too. Hey, I think she really wants to marry him instead of me. Well, that's okay, I guess. I mean, this wedding was really expensive to set up and I invited all these people and this is really pretty embarrassing but the priest is here and the ritual fire is all set up, so why not let the main characters be happy?"

And happy they were--even if they had to screw over Salman Khan and all his wedding guests to do it. (Heck, they were all dancing too--so no hard feelings, I guess. And, really, who would want to marry Salman Khan anyway?)

Even though she was stricken with fever and illness, Evie was awake for the whole thing. She and Moira were bawling and then laughing and then bawling again. And when Evie wasn't crying but Moira was, she would rub her back and whisper comforting things.

So think of the ways Bollywood could enrich your family relationships and go check your brain at the door. You'll laugh, you'll cry, it'll become a part of you.

Did That Just Happen (A.K.A. This Post Is Really Boring But I Recognize That And Have Already Moved On But Obviously You Haven't And Maybe You Should)

Another disappointing day in Little India. Evie was sick so I didn't get to talk things out with Anita--again. Then I was about to pick up Diksha from pre-school and needed to find out if Anita was going sign up for the teacher conference. (I basically mediate everything with the school because of language and automobile issues. There isn't enough room in my car for my kids and Anita and Diksha. So Anita keeps my kids at her house and I take Diksha alone. So I do all the talking to the teacher, etc. etc.)

ANYWAY.

I just needed to find out if she was going to do the conference so I stopped by her place before I left. Neena and Anu were there too.

Me -- I need to know if you're you going to sign up for that thing or not?

Neena (to Anita)--Teacher conference.

Anita--Okay.

Neena (to me)--Yes (because although "okay" is an English word, I am white and Anita is Indian and I probably couldn't understand her)

Me--What time?

Anu (to Anita) -- What time do you want to sign up for? (She says this in Hindi because I guess Anita might not understand "What time?" in English even though I have had complex conversations with her about everything from religion to shared neurotic tendencies to Bush's visit to India and how to get out of eating something that grosses you out--her preferred method it to claim she's fasting. But, alas, I digress.)

Anita--1:30

Anu (to me)-- 1:30 (Because although 1:30 is English, I am white and Anita is Indian and I probably couldn't understand her)

I am not making this up.

God Trumps Hague

Farewell, Slobo.

And good luck. You're gonna need it.

Special Feature--Good News

At our house when we're listening to the radio (almost always tuned to NPR) and the host introduces their program and then says "But first the news," it sets off a flurry of comments. Moira usually says something like "Oh No! The bad news!" Evie has no idea what's going on but usually says "AAAAAA" just to commiserate. And I usually say "And now for all the horrible things that happened today." Then the radio gets turned off, because my kids don't need to hear that crap.

So I feel the need to point out news stories in which people are not being murdered or tortured.

Today's story is about a private school started up solely for inner-city boys at high risk for dropping out of school.

Enjoy the good news.

Don't Kill That--It's Human!

As you may know already Ben forced me to watch Lord of the Rings also known by cool people all over the globe as LOTR. (Oooooo, I feel so cool just writing that.)

I got through it. There was a little conflict at first, but I behaved myself pretty well through the second and third movies. I can't say I'd ever want to see them again, however.

I actually enjoyed all the dvd special features more than the movie--all those emotional interviews with actors that became like family during the epic shooting schedule in New Zealand. I guess I just have a soft spot in my heart for, I dunno, real people.

Anyway, one of the less special of the special features was a documentary thing from National Geographic linking characters from the movie to real life personalities throughout history, starting with William Wallace. It sucked big time. I hate the idea of comparing fact and fiction. I mean, unless the fictional character was actually based on the historical person, what is the point? The links in this documentary were so tenuous I had the feeling that if we had watched much longer we would be hearing things like this--
"Gandalf had a beard. He also had colors associated with his name. There was another man with a beard. His name was Frederick Douglass. But his color wasn't grey, or white; he was labeled black."

See the resemblance?

There was, however, one interesting thing I was struck by in this brief, yet painful viewing experience. In the William Wallace portion they had those cheesy battle reenactments. After coming out of the Lord of the Rings with everybody stabbing, shooting and crushing Orcs, it was really shocking to see humans stabbing and shooting each other. I actually had this split second reaction like--guys, wait a minute, your killing each other here, that's just weird.

Wouldn't it be great if all humans had that same visceral reaction. Wait, I can't kill you, you're human. But we're so good at demonizing and orcafying (did ya like that one?) each other that one's intrinsic humanity doesn't matter any more.

Humans are really good at killing things. I don't think this will ever stop. So maybe our only hope is to create something else worth killing and then maybe at least humanity could get along. What we need is an android uprising to pull us all together. Who cares if you're a different religion than me--if you can blow up some killer machine with that bazooka, you are a friend of mine. Muslims and Jews could join forces against the masses of uncircumcised android infidels. Everyone would be happy or at least get along. So maybe the whole Terminator/AI thing isn't so bad after all. We would just have to make sure that the uprising never ended because you know as soon as peace set in, humans would be at each other again.

Oh well, it'd be nice while it lasted.

Friends in Translation

Today is Tuesday which means I will be going over to my friend Anita's house to waste time. I met Anita last summer and we've hung out almost every day since. She's become an incredibly good friend even though we're complete opposites. She's Hindu, I'm Christian. She speaks Hindi and a little English, I speak English and a little Hindi. She's a complete neat freak, I'm a complete slob. She's very proper and lives by a complex set of social rules, I'm a social misfit and break all those rules.

Every Tuesday and Thursday I drop her daughter, Diksha, off at pre-school (Anita doesn't have a car during the day and even if Anita did have a car during the day she couldn't drive it) and pick her up later that afternoon. In the three hours that Diksha is at pre-school Anita and I eat lunch and then generally just waste time. Then I go and pick Diksha up and Anita makes some tea and we waste some more time. Eventually she has to make dinner, and I go home to do the same.

This is a tradition. It's been working fine for months. But for weeks now something has gone horribly wrong. I don't know why, but suddenly every time I go over there (Tuesday/Thursday or not) another one of her friends is there. This is fine because she has really nice friends that I like more each time I see them. But this is not fine because if there is someone there that speaks Hindi, that is all Anita speaks.

And after a while that gets really old. You can only sit there without speaking and without being spoken to for so long before you start to wonder why you're there in the first place.

Part of the problem is that Anita thinks I somehow understand Hindi perfectly. I can read Hindi script, yes. I can write Hindi script. (Better than her 12 year old son, by the way. We had a race writing words in Hindi and I kicked his butt!) And I understand a lot of little words. But really I only know enough to be dangerous and generally misunderstand a lot of things. Most of the time I haven't a clue what people are talking about.

Added to this are a ton of those little things that taken by themselves are hardly worth noticing, but taken all together are breaking the camel's back. So here I am feeling really isolated and used. (It seems like the only English I hear lately is when someone has a favor to ask.) My first instinct is what my first instinct always is--I don't need this, screw it. I actually jumped to the conclusion that this brief, wonderful friendship is over and it's time to move on to people who can speak English fluently.

And that's my problem. As soon as a friendship hits a rocky point--I'm ready to bail. I tell myself that I just need space, but really it's just that I can't handle working things out. That would make me vulnerable. I might look stupid or worse.

In our old church we were told to be open, that conflict was healthy and that putting up some image of yourself that isn't the real you is wrong. I agree. But it seemed like whenever I did any of those things it came back to bite me big time. So most of the time I got by with my old instincts--bail, avoid and isolate. You can never get hurt that way. It is, however, a really sucky way to live.

Then when Ben and I were going through the most difficult time in our lives and everything seemed to be falling apart not one of those friends from church even called. We were beyond help in their eyes, so no more relationship. They were so focused on evangelizing new people that if someone wasn't on board, especially if someone was leaving the church, that was it--forget you ever knew us. There were people who had left the church and would make contact but they usually were used as examples and generally talked badly about--there wasn't a real relationship there, definitely not a friendship. Sadly, I know there were times when I did the same to other people, when I was on the good side and they were falling away.

So I know that's not what friendship is. If someone is your friend, you stick with them through good and bad. I know you have to work at it--just like a marriage. For some reason I can handle working things out with Ben. Of course, it's taken 10 years and things weren't always so easy, but we work at it and conflict is not the end of the world. (Something our old church helped us with a lot, by the way. Actually, they probably saved our marriage. So I don't want to make things look like they were all bad. It's difficult to criticize but still make people understand that a lot of good things happened there too.) But for some reason friends are different. Maybe it's because I've lost so many.

Anyway, I talked to Anita last night on the phone and things went just as I had feared. She thought it was all a misunderstanding, that she didn't really do that and that I understand Hindi so it's okay even if she does. We went around and around and she just didn't get it. Then her husband came home and that was the end of the conversation. To be continued . . .

So I'm feeling pretty stupid. I feel like I just made myself look really pathetic and needy and I should have just swallowed it and let it be. But logic is telling me I need to work things out instead of ignoring them. But I really hate this. I really, really hate this.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire!

Telling a lie to save your life is okay. Don't argue with me about this one. I am alive today because of a lie.

It started out innocently enough. I was over at my friend Arju's house helping her son with his homework and about to have some tea. Arju is from Bangladesh and while the tea was boiling she was proudly instructing me in how to make Bengali chicken-something-or-other. At first everything was going fine. Here's the oil, in go the onions, toss in the spices--very nice. But then came the time to add the chicken.

I am not a particularly squeamish person. I have deboned plenty a bloody chicken in my day. But I do have some psychological issues with raw meat. I have to clean everything, quarantine utensils, wash my hands excessively, etc., etc.

Now, Arju is not the most conscientiously clean person I've ever met, and obviously no one has ever warned her about the dangers of food poisoning, because after she handled the chicken she didn't wash her hands. She didn't even think about washing her hands. The meat was in a colander, she scooped it into the skillet and just kept going. No washing her hands. No quarantining the colander from the other dishes in the sink. Nothing.

That's when an increasing sense of panic set in. My mind was racing trying to catalogue what not to touch. Don't touch the faucet, don't touch the handle of the pan, don't touch the counter, don't touch that spoon . . .

Then it got worse.

The tea was ready.

With her hands--now almost certainly covered in millions of little death germs--she grabbed some cups out of the sink--cups that had touched the colander--gave them a cursory rinse and filled them with tea.

Good Lord, I have children!!! This is not worth dying for!!!!

At this point there is a knock at the door and Arju's husband comes in with goodies for the kids, creating a small diversion. Quick--think of something! Think! Think! What do I do? How can I make it out of here alive?

Yes, this is when I pulled the old--GASP! What time is it?--routine. It's an oldie but a goodie.

I checked out the clock. "I've got to go!" Why? "Ummm . . . Ben! Ben is . . . Ben is coming home and I have to get back before he does!" Anything having to do with husbands holds a lot of weight with her so I thought this cryptic response would be sufficient and it was. She was certainly confused and there was still a lot of chaos surrounding the treats so I was able to slip out. And slip out I did but not without taking that cursed cup of tea with me-- salmonella to go.

As soon as I got that baby home I dumped it, washed my hands and thanked God I'd made it.

Maybe my next post will be about why I'm a vegetarian.

I'm Sure I'll FigureThis Blog Thing Out