The fan created a steady whirring sound and gently moved the humid air across the bed. He was illuminated by the city lights coming in through the open windows, and she watched his eye lids flutter, he, too, unable to keep them closed to allow sleep to come.

“When did you fall in love with me?” she asked him.

“I don’t know,” he said, pausing to consider her question. Staring up at the ceiling, his breathing sped up a bit, providing his brain with the proper oxygen to access memories. “I think the first time I wanted to say it…” his voice trailed off.

“You wanted to say it before you said it?”

“Well, yeah. A few times,” he replied. “Do you remember the time you started dancing the Charleston in my living room for no reason? I think that’s when I knew.”

She smiled with the knowledge that the man beside her, for all his anxieties and bashful approach to life, still managed to understand her joi de vivre and loved her for it.

“I love you so very much,” she told him as she leaned over to kiss his chest in the place where his heart beat closest to the surface.

He kissed her forehead and turned over to sleep. “I love you too.”

With the constant nagging that most all of my posts are political, I wanted to make the following announcement: good things are possible, even when you might least expect it.

Somewhere, in the least appealing corner of the Midwest, there lives a man who loves the game of basketball. Not ever blessed with great skill in this game, he has for more than twenty years enthusiastically taken every opportunity to play the game- sometimes among those known to him- and often not.  The gains brought by experience and an ever-increasing knowledge of the game seemed over time to be degraded in equal measure by increasing age and varying physical shape.

This man continued to play, continued to struggle, continued to love the game. Then one day he made a realization: against young men ten years his junior and orders of magnitude more gifted- he was holding his own. It was on a day that he fared particularly well that it became clear: the years and all of the struggle had yielded progress. Laden with ankle and knee braces and a 10 minute pre and post game stretch routine, he was playing the best basketball of his life at 32 years of age.

Though not long for the part of the world where the ability to box out was vital social currency, he took solace in this realization. He was excited about what it might mean for the future. Most of all, he was comforted about the larger reality once again laid bare: progress is possible, even when most in doubt.

 

There used to be a young lady named Cilcia. She was consistantly outraged about something because the world had so much wrong with it. She started an environmental club in fifth grade. She read The Feminine Mistique at age 13. She volunteered at the Humane Society at age 14. When she was a freshman in college, she marched in her first gay pride parade as a straight ally. And on March 20, 2003, she cried as the Iraq War began.

Around the age of 26, however, she began to shrug her shoulders at these things. She saw the little things she could do to help and did them, but the ills of the world just didn’t preoccupy her mind like they once did.

I miss that that young girl. I remember the first time I was really angry with my father was over a comment he made to me, warning me that being so upset about the affairs of the world was a waste of my energy, and that as I got older I would no longer be as enraged. I was so offended that he thought I would care less about humanity, care less about the planet. I swore at him, called him a lazy ex-hippie baby boomer who did too many drugs back in the day and ruined the world for my generation. I was 14-years-old.

Today I read an article in the Washington Post about the abysmal rate of rape convictions in England and Wales. Only 5.7% of cases brought to trial end in a conviction. I wasn’t at all shocked. America’s rate isn’t much better, at about 13%. This bothers me, but I suppose I am no longer appalled because I know it to be true not from statistics, but from life experience.

Very many women, the vast majority of them in fact, never report instances of sexual assault and rape. That’s just how it is. When we still live in a society where men make more money than women for the same job, where women’s sexuality is used regularly to boost product sales, and women are being driven to alcoholism to deal with balancing family, marriage, work, and the pressure to look 25 at 55, is it any wonder they don’t report sexual crimes? Is it any wonder that when they actually do report them, it is so difficult to get a conviction in their favor?

Once in college, at a party, some male friends were talking about a statistic, that 1 in 4 women had been sexually assaulted. These fine gentlemen, all of whom could never fathom hurting a woman, thought the statistic must be exaggerated. They didn’t know a single woman who had ever been assaulted. That’s when I spoke up, because they did indeed know more than one. Those women had simply chosen to remain mostly silent about those experiences, sharing them only with a select few other women.

The expressions on their faces, imagining their close friends and girlfriends being assaulted, were at once horrified, scared and angry. They felt helpless. They asked me what they should do. I told them, “Continue to be the good men you are and don’t commit a murder when you find out one day your girlfriend/wife/daughter was assualted.”

The “fairer” sex. The “weaker” sex. Being referred to as a “girl” when I am a grown woman. Really, those words don’t get me upset anymore. At this point in my life, I feel that my role in changing the world for the better is more effective by noticing, voting, contributing to non-profits, writing about it, and, one day, educating my children to be responsible and empathetic world citizens. The uptick in my blood pressure, however, is no longer worth it.

Today was a day of firsts in many ways. Andy, my 4 year old son, and I played ball and bat for the first time.

It all started when we were riding on bikes on our court (cul-de-sac for those who use cul-de-sac). It was a perfect Spring day… cool, overcast, and windy. But it felt nice. Temperature was good. The smell of rain in the air. He was riding his big wheel… big wheels rule by the way, even though they are a crash hazard if you make a sudden turn.

But he wears his little red dinosaur helmet, and being his dad, I wear my helmet too. We passed a storm sewer grate in front of the curb of our neighbors house, and we found this raggedy old ball. It wasn’t made of nerf, but it was nerf-life. Heavier though, and it would bounce really well. But it wouldn’t hurt if it hit you… really the perfect ball for a little boy and his dad to play their first game of ball and bat.

We ditched out bikes and helmets, then stumbled upon another first. The best location for us to play was IN THE STREET. Now normally, we are very worried about him being near the street, but it was early afternoon, most of the neighbors still at work, and all the bigger kids still in school. Great! Our yard just doesn’t really cut it, b/c our front, side, and back yards are all on rolling ground, not your typical, flat Indiana lawn. It’s kinda nice actually, but just not the best for playing ball and bat. So I made an executive decision… we’re playing in the street!

I was pitching; he was hitting. Well I was catcher too… because somehow when he’d miss I’d get stuck with chasing the ball down behind him. It was cool for a while, but then I had him get a few misses. He whacked a few pretty good. He’s played a few times before with Wendy, but for him and me, it was a first.

Then I took a crack at batting and at first, I was just tossing them up to myself and hitting them to him. Then I got this idea to hit one straight up into the air to see how high it would go. And that’s when I had this really cool memory surface from the back of my mind. It was of my Uncle Bob. We were playing with a bouncy kick ball out in front of my parents’ house in the street, on the court I grew up on. He kicked the ball up so high into the air, it was like it really disappeared into the clouds for a few seconds! I of course was amused and amazed. I don’t remember how old I was. But I always remembered that moment, and associated it with Uncle Bob. I hadn’t thought about it for years, until that moment when I blasted that little friendly nerf-like ball straight up into the air.

Then Andy had the same reaction I did when I was a kid. WOOOOOOOW! Do it again! Zen mind, beginner’s mind. Things are always fresh and new to the young.

After a while, we headed back inside, watched a little tv, had some lunch, then took a nap. We love our naps. Another time to be quiet and think, and dream. I’m going to dream about us playing together more during these perfect spring days.

Uncle Bob… if you’re reading this… thanks for kicking that ball up into the clouds.

I realize a large number of readers of our fine blog here may not be Hooisers… residents of the fine State of Indiana. The loud roar you hear is not the sound of engines being fired at the Indianapolis Motor Speedway, it is the fate of our nation in many respects coming down to what happens in the land of corn and oval race tracks.

Read the rest of this entry »

I am becoming a pretty big fan of this Vlog called Mob Logic. Check out today’s episode. I think for something produced by the big corporate CBS machine, it has quite a bit of freedom by those who work on it. Kudos. Great prouduction value.

http://consumerist.com/383028/free-you-dont-need-it-stickers

Just a few days ago, my buddy and frontman of my Blues Band introduced Senator Obama on a local campaign stop. Much of the campaign speech that followed that introduction was the standard stump speech stuff- and was clearly targeted at the right of center setting in which he was giving the speech. On thing he felt compelled to respond to was interesting to me- interesting in that it seems to be a real revelation to many people.

Obama has been under some considerable heat the last few days for his comments suggesting that the antipathy of poor whites that often manifests itself in anti-immigration sentiment, intolerant religious expression and homophobia has economic roots. Indeed, poor white people are bitter and disenchanted about their lives, and rather than expressing it in terms of hostility toward the powerful, too often the hostility is redirected at the powerless. Since that very paradox is something long of interest to me- my reaction to Obama’s statement was moderate surprise at the willingness to tell such a politically dangerous truth- but not much beyond that.

What’s been really interesting, though, is to see the reaction of his opponents and of several media folks. People are freaking out. Apparently this idea that there are people in this country whose legitimate discontent has been misdirected at minorities and others who ALSO live on the margins of society is a revelation. You’d think that none of these folks were familiar with Thomas Frank’s book - something I can hardly imagine from the “Washington Elite”. Perhaps next we can pretend to be suprised that racism is not over.

 

This post will not be much of a revelation to anyone, but it’s something that I think about a lot and have been of late frustrated over a great deal. I think a lot about how and why folks resist change. Though I am myself an outspoken radical and someone whose personality is given to always seeking a better and different tomorrow, I try to engage often and seriously with conservative (note the small c there) ideas. From my conservative friends (there I said it) to writings of conservatives and discussions and debates, I have thought a lot about the ways in which conservatives resist change. I’ll use the example of material inequality between whites and people of color, since that is what I study- and below is a short list of ways in which people resist change.

1. Deny the problem exists. This is comfortable and natural for most who defend the status quo as they benefit from the system and can see few problems with it. You can do this by massaging data to suggest that the problem does not really exist or is overstated by orders of magnitude by “alarmists”. Make numerous references to Malthus, ect.

2. Blame the victim. This is a time honored favorite in which it is suggested that the source of injustice is not those who benefit from it, but in fact those who are its victims. Arguments of this kind used to be biological (see number 3) but are now mostly cultural- i.e.- those who suffer injustice have a pathological/ antisocial culture that causes injustice. Big love if you use the word “agency” more than 5 times.

3. Suggest that the phenomenon in question is “natural”. Men are naturally superior to women- white people to people of color- war is a natural human condition- inequality is a unavoidable feature of society- etc. By doing this, you can suggest that the problem can never be overcome and should just be accepted. Extra points for using the phrase “As much as we might not like it, in the REAL world, you will always have _____ ”

Read the rest of this entry »

Free at last, they took your life
They could not take your pride

Today I ate lunch at an old-school Sczechwan Chinese restaurant with a buddy of mine.  It smelled like frying hamburger and the walls had a disconcerting amount of mirrors. We were catching up over chicken kung pow (him) and broccoli in garlic sauce (me). He was telling me about a friend of ours and a new rule in his life regarding his extensive film collection:

Friend: So his girlfriend has a new rule. For every movie that comes into the apartment, two have to leave.

Me: Harsh. I never liked her.

Friend: I know. I can’t believe they are still together. She’s really enforcing this rule.

Me: So what were the movies?

Friend: He really wanted to bring in Juno.

Me: What did he give up?

Friend: Fraternity Fuckfest and Grand Theft Anal.

Me: Of course!

Friend: He gave them to me, and I was all, ‘I’m not even into anal’.  Do you want it?

Me: No thanks. I’m not really into anal either.

We moved on to other topics and finished the meal. In an ‘I swear I don’t make this stuff up’ gift of happenstance, my fortune cookie read: “Boys will be boys, and so will a lot of middle-aged men”.  If anyone wants to play the lotto, the lucky numbers were 21, 22, 31, 34, 45, 46.

This made me sqirm.

 

 Perhaps you too know this phenomenon. No one in my house is able to go to the bathroom without the permission and guidance of one of my three cats. The yellow-eyed supervisor pictured above is that leader of this little bathroom gang. And I have a confession to make: in this world of ever-changing strangeness, I am more and more appreciative all the time of this loyalty, of this routine. So few institutions, indeed so few human beings, are as dependable as mister meepers. So here’s to you Meepcat. Thanks for being there- even in my- ahem- darkest moments.

One day I will have a daughter.  She will have curly brown hair and be hyper-articulate.  Then she will grow up and fall in love with a fanboy (see previous post). 

Sometimes I think I’m too brash, but then I watch things like this and my uterus hurts and then I again feel confident in my femininity.

Dating awkward boys is a bit of a specialty for me.  Shy, geeky, uncomfortable-in-their-own-skin types seem to really enjoy my company.  It was put to me like this by one of them, ”You are outgoing so I don’t have to be.  I’m a part of the conversation without having to say anything.”

The knowledge I possess regarding Star Wars, pinball, comic books, Todd McFarlane, and SSRI and MAO inhibitors is all related to the lovely men who at one time or another trusted me slightly more than they trusted the rest of the world.

When I became frustrated with their introversion and veered away from the awkward types, I dated the confident egomaniacs.  From them I learned about Pro Tools, groupies, Murray’s Pomade, Honda CRX engines, and how to do a track stand on a fixed gear bike.

Just for fun, I am dating one of each right now.  The juxtaposition is very telenovela.

The other day, I met Egomaniac for brunch in the East Village.  The conversation was spirited, but focused on his band, his guitar students, his career.  After, he walked me to the subway station.  As we passed P.S. 122 holding hands, a homeless man told Egomaniac he was a lucky guy and that we made a good looking couple.  We laughed and thanked him. 

Later the same day, I met Awkward for dinner in the East Village.  There was no conversation.  We just stared out the window and watched people as we ate our pizza.  I commented on a dog.  He nodded.  Silence.  Chewing.  After, he walked me to the subway station.  As we passed P.S. 122 not holding hands, the same homeless man told Awkward, “I’d find a way to hold her hand.  She’s a good looking girl and you’d make a good looking couple”.  Shamed, Awkward grabbed my hand and we walked the rest of the way in silence.

Of course, for Valentine’s Day, Awkward gave me a sweet card and potted violets.  Egomaniac forgot but his band practice went really well.

Muy dramatico y divertido.  Aye dios mio!