Memorial Day

By circumstances of history and geography, nobody in my family served in the US military.  My oldest brother, born in 1953, was eligible during the waning years of the Vietnam War but was never called.  I remember my parents figuratively wringing their hands wondering if he'd be drafted into the obligatory service of the Korean Army.  We weren't citizens yet and if he were called, we wouldn't have had any protection from the US government.  [Yes, they'd draft you but not protect you.]

I just went to my 30th college reunion.  Memorial Day weekend came and went.  My husband recently lost 2 uncles.  His mother has crossed over from the peaceful days of retirement into the waning, translucent days of memory loss, loneliness and depression.

It's no surprise then, that I have been thinking about the passing of days. As it was Memorial Day, I looked for these pictures of my dad and his one older brother, who served in the Korean Army and Air Force, respectively:

I think this was around 1950.  There were 4 boys in that family; one went to be with the North Koreans.   The other, a geeky, brainy young man, was captured by the North Koreans, for their "brain trust," no doubt.  These 2 brothers were able to escape the Communists coming from the north and served in the South Korean military.

Ten years later, my dad was at Kimpo Airport in Seoul, heading to Brandeis University for a PhD in Mathematics.  My uncle rose in the ranks of the Air Force.

Back then, Korea was still reeling from the Japanese Forced Occupation, WW2 and the Korean War.  Unlike the bustling industrialized powerhouse it is today, it was a poverty-stricken, physically destroyed Third World country.  Only the biggest roads were paved; children played in the dirt in rags.  The people were small mostly because of the lack of good nutrition.  My dad and uncle would have been quite a vision at 5'-9" and sturdy of build.  It was said that people in the streets would stop and stare at my handsome uncle, wondering if he were an American movie star

My grandparents left their home in Haeju, now in North Korea,  lost a father to Japanese torture and imprisonment, and lost 2 sons.  Now a 3rd son was headed to the other side of the world.  No jet planes direct from Seoul to NYC, but instead, a prop plane that hopscotched from Seoul to Tokyo to Hawaii to Chicago before landing at Kennedy. Never mind cell phones, there was barely such a thing as overseas calls of any kind.  Remember, these were the days of black & white TVs and 3, maybe 4 channels!

Maybe they were so used to losses that this kind of joy and opportunity overrode any sadness they were sure to have.  Maybe their deep and abiding faith in God helped them through.  There's no "maybe" for me.  I'm sure as I can be of anything, that their God, was their source of strength and confidence.

What I Thought

Disagreeing with someone doesn't mean you hate them, right?  You can think of many people, many issues with which you disagree and hate is not a factor, right?  Right?

I don't need to give examples, right?

Ok, so there are people that I really, really dislike because of their views.  You know, that I disagree with.  But it's because I DISRESPECT them.  Like a local-yokel Communications major trying to run for president.  Of the United States.  Or that Big Fat Liar dude.  And that Glenny-come-lately.

These days, I hear proponents of homosexual marriage banty about the the terms "bigot" and "hate," when speaking of those of us who disagree with them.  The public stance is, "if you disagree with us, you hate us and you're a bigot."

Gosh, I didn't know I hated homosexuals.  I didn't know I was a bigot.  Sure I harbor prejudices like everyone.  But I am one to look deep into myself and really try to cleanse myself.

I thought I saw all people as being made in the image of God.  I thought I tried to respect people for all they are, not just a part.  I thought I vehemently disagreed with those who single out homosexuals as being worse sinners or perverts or blah blah.  I thought that I believed we were all sinners and that I am saved only by the Grace of God and not of my own doing.

That's what I thought I thought.

Human Bein'

All those moppets have equal value: whether bein' white, beige, tan, brown, athletic, handicapped, mute, blind, deaf, happy, sad, made in China or Macao.  I need know only this, that they are all made in the image of their Maker.

Once they start walkin' and talkin' - it's a different matter.  Born that way or made that way, they're walkin' and talkin' now.

I have the right and the responsibility to judge whether the walkin' and talkin' is acceptable, or not.  Acceptable.  (Loaded!)  We all do it.  Judge: Decide.  I see other moppets doin and talkin things I find unAcceptable.   They - obviously - think it is Acceptable.  I have the right and responsibility to differ.  But some of them moppets are startin to insist that I accept what they walkn and talkin.  Not very liberal of them.

According to them moppets, me a bigot bein'.

In All Fairness

Do you think the world is fair?  I bet you've told your kids once or twice 'the world isn't fair,' in one form or another.  But do you think in the depth of your existence that the world is fair?

Do you believe in sin?  Do you believe that sin pervades entire humanity?  Do you ever think about why Adam and Eve saw they were naked and were ashamed?  I think it tells us that even at the deepest and most intimate part of our own being and our relationship to others, sin is there.  Sitting.  Lurking.

I put 2 and 2 together and realize that I am here despite unfairness.  Sin.  In myself.  In my husband.  In my parents.  In the government.  Even, in my pastor.  I sit in comfort, at a computer, saying what I please, knowing I will get a hot shower soon and go for a latte, not because I worked hard or my husband worked hard or we're better people.  Because really?  I'm not such a hard worker.  Did I help create Communism??  Did I choose to have grandparents that had to leave North Korea?  Did I choose to have a brilliant father?  That came to the US to study?  That gave me the intelligence and drive to succeed?  That I actually succeeded?

Of course the answer is "No." 

I am here completely, thoroughly by The Grace of God.

Then how am I to think about the rest of the world?  Can I turn around and assume that the world is fair and that those less fortunate should just work harder? 

No.  I can't do that.  I must understand that the world is unfair.  From the moment the Serpent tricked Eve.  And in one generation, had a brother kill his brother.  Oh it was a slippery slope.

Sitting here at the top, I want my heart to be soft, to reach out, to sympathize.  How about you?

Allergy

I get a gurgly feeling in the pit of my stomach.  This subtle yet clear urge to, um, excuse me, but this urge to lurch.  I feel a sense of shame.  I've had it for decades now.  I should probably go talk to someone about it.  See if there's an antidote. 

It happened during the 80's, the Reagan years, the Bushes.  Now, with Barack Obama. 
Barack.  Obama.  MaMan.

Now I know for sure that I have an incurable allergy to State of the Union Addresses.

Pretty Poor

/
When I was young and idealistic, I lived in a big city.  I walked the historic cobblestone streets, walked through the public greens, attended a picturesque church.  A church painted by Arshile Gorky and Maurice Prendergast.  My leather heels would get caught between the cobblestones and my briefcase felt too heavy.  Passing by the reflecting pond in the garden, on alternate benches came the pungent smells of the homeless.  In plain view of the gold-domed state house, lined along the basement windows of this church lay huddled masses of gray rags, covered by fresh newspapers, steam rising around them from the subway grilles.

As a young professional living in a big city, I didn't make much, but certainly I had enough time and money to get some food for one poor soul.  I walked to the nearby fast-food joint and bought a sandwich and fries.  I approached one of the huddles of rags and bent down. "Here, I brought you some food."

This older woman looked up from beneath a blanket, her lovely face ashy with dirt.  Her eyes lit up, and she thanked me for my kindness.  She told me a heart-wrenching story of how she came to live on the street.  Her family owned a small diner, but one misfortune after another left them penniless.  She and her husband of 30 years moved in with their engineer son, but he died of cancer at 28 and her husband died of a broken heart.

No.  That's not what happened.  She was an older woman, yes, but her face was like dried carcass, purple and veined from weather, hardship and probably alcohol.  Her eyes glowed with hatred as she swatted at me with her rag-covered club of an arm.  She cursed and swore at me in a gravelly voice from a horror movie telling me to leave her alone and who did I think I was.

I almost fell back on my heels.  I looked around in embarrassment.  I re-rolled the top of the paper bag in nervousness and backed away.  I headed to the subway stop, on my way home and dropped the food into a city trash can.

I thought about that for a long time.  What I learned was that I can't know what others need.  Especially if I am no where near where that other person is in terms of experiences and hopes, or lack thereof.

I also learned it is easier to love the poor when they are a storybook version of "poor."  A story book version of the poor may be dusty but clean, thankful and sane.  The poor were hard working but misfortune befell them through no fault of their own.  They saved rain water so they could clean themselves and wash their clothes with bits of soap they scavenged.  Pretty children with large round eyes.  They were humble and appreciated whatever was given to them.  And they got back on their feet through the generosity of others.

When the poor are rancid, carrying around hidden bits of feces on their blackened rags?  When they laid around on side walks and scavenged in the dumpsters?  When their children are petty thieves? When they are the third generation living on welfare?  Smoking two packs a day? And damn they AREN'T thankful to you.  And chances are, they aren't going to get back on their feet.  In a month.  In a year.  Or more.

Maybe it's easier for some to give to Haiti, imagining these distant people.  Few of us have smelled them or seen them.  They believe in voodoo and do all kinds of things that decent suburbanites don't do.  But they're far away and they don't smell and we can't see if they're lazy or crazy.  But the poor in this country?  We've walked by them with their gaggle of children.  Seen them buy junk food at the stores.  Talk too loud.  Sit around.  They're not pretty.  They take up our air, eat off of our tax dollars.  But is it easier to love an idea?  The idea of the poor rather than the ones you bump up against?  The ones you can smell?

I don't know a lot about the poor.  But I think I know this:  I am not able to decide who is worthy and who is not worthy of my money and time and what it is that they need.  Maybe we need to be a bit more humble and say that we don't know what brought these people to this point - near or far - and give with a generous heart?

Kindergarten

I'm not talking about Xtreme bloggers.  Those that are basically psycho misanthropes and hate everything.  There are plenty.  Really.  It's sad.

I'm talking about the educated, reasonable-in-all-appearances bloggers.

As poisonous as gossip is, so much more the written word.  So, yes, blogging is a form of diary to most but if you're going to let the public in on your private world?  I firmly believe you need to act responsibly.  Your feelings about your life, what the dog ate, problems at your kid's school -  yes.  Opinions? yes.  Opinions based on ignorance?  Umm.  As Jesus is Truth, and He is called The Word, might there be something more critical in the written (recorded) word than the ones spewed out over coffee? 

Here's what George Orwell said about the written word:

 "One ought to recognize that the present political chaos is connected with the decay of language, and that one can probably bring about some improvement by starting at the verbal end....The word Fascism has now no meaning except insofar as it signifes 'something not diesrable.' The words democracy, socialism, freedom, patriotic, realistic, justice, have each of them several different meanings which cannot be reconciled with one another...Words of this kind are often used in a consiously dishonest way." - George Orwell in "Politics and the Englsih Language"

I just read a blog in which a suburban stay-at-home mom/wife to a doctor with one child spouts off about healthcare reform.  She moans about how hard her husband worked to get into med school, how sad her little girl is because he's working 3rd shift and how have they 200K in student loans.  Legitimate fodder for a blog, in my opinion.  That I think she's whiney and ungrateful is beside the point.  I don't have to read it, right?  And I won't.

But the facts?  Please have SOME inkling about what you are talking about.  The other day, I made a comment on a blog about Pee Wee Herman being a child molester.  Pee Wee Herman!  My fingers don't even want to type his name!!  Bleagh!  I had to DEL key several times!  Now, I am NOT bragging.  I'm just giving you an example.  I found out he was never charged of molestation.  He's definitely convicted for being WIERD but not that other thing.  I retracted my comment on the blog.  I didn't have to, and the blogger lovey even LOL'd me.  But I felt I needed to because I didn't want to add to the floating fodder that he is, when he isn't. (As far as anyone knows.)

This blogger said 'every hospital is required to treat everyone.'  That's the law.  Rules are meant to be broken, right?!  Do you know what really happens?  The "undesirables" get ambulanced to other (undesirable) hospitals.  Undesirable might mean you, lady, if your nice doctor gets disabled and can't get health insurance.  Some even die in the waiting room.  And.  AND.  If they get treated?  THEY GET A BILL that even we couldn't, nor this said blogger could AFFORD!  And you don't think you're already paying for all this care?  You don't think these same people maybe should have a plan instead of going to the ER all the time?

There are many reasons to not like the healthcare bill.  A dear friend of mine doesn't like it because she doesn't trust the government to do a good job. OK! I accept that!  I have lots of comments about it, but I buy it!  Nobody even has to give a reason.  It's a free country, right?  But if you give a reason?  and it's in writing? and it's in the public domain?  Have some sense of responsibility.

And.

'He's worked so hard, we didn't ask for anything, and why should I give anything away??' she says.  It's called SHARING.  It might not be in the form of a government program, but don't be so selfish and hateful.  It's called LOVE.  It's called HUMILITY.

...behold! a great multitude that no one could number, **from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages,** standing before the throne and before the Lamb... Revelations 7:9

“But as for me, my prayer is to you, O Lord.
At an acceptable time, O God, in the abundance of your steadfast love, answer me in your saving faithfulness.”
- Psalm 69:13

Fear not, for I have redeemed you;
I have called you by your name;
You are Mine.
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you;
And through the rivers, they shall not overflow you.
When you walk through the fire, you shall not be burned,
Nor shall the flame scorch you.
For I am the LORD your God,
The Holy One of Israel, your Savior;
- Isaiah 43: 1-3

Defend the cause of the weak and fatherless;
maintain the rights of the poor and oppressed.
Rescue the weak and needy;
deliver them from the hand of the wicked.
- Psalm 82:3-4

A generous man will himself be blessed, for he shares his food with the poor. - Proverbs 22:9

I wonder if she went to Kindergarten.

If It Ain't Broke

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One of the basic tenets of Conservatism is Maintenance over Change, or, "if it ain't broke, don't fix it." 

I just want to know who decided it ain't broke?

/

Proselytize

I don't know why I have to be so defensive when I talk about this.  Well, I know why.  Because if everyone that doesn't see it my way sees the way I see things, I'm afraid I'll be judged as a religious maniac, judgmental and hateful.  Closed-minded.  Stupid and unwilling to look out at the world. I don't really understand.  This post is really about what is age-appropriate, but it's impossible not to address what is Appropriate and Right.

Actually, none of those things are true.  If you knew me.  If you knew me.  Cuz I do understand. 

I just braved the snowstorm to take my 7-year old son and his 9-year old friend to see a local production of a play.  The play is billed as "recommended ages 4 to adult."  So this play.  One too many scenes of the cast end faced to the audience shakin it.  A lascivious female character  making like Marilyn.  A tomcat and a shecat flicking their tongues at each other.  A gender crunching queen careening and cavorting about.  There were some cute puns.  Puns, I love. Puns, I can do.  I can't do the sexual innuendos that were riddled through the play.

This is considered appropriate for all ages.

Don't give me the "they have to learn some time" thing.  Some time. Not at 7 and 9.  I am busy building a firm foundation.  A firm foundation of love and order and certainty and a world that is safe.  You can't build a healthy child whose mind says things are always akilter.  Because when they find the world IS akilter?  the foundation may crack.  Does a 7- and 9-year old need to know about all the things in this world?  or do we, as parents, have the right and responsibility to judge when the times are right?  I know people who don't see it that way.  They want to "normalize" everything for their children.  Sex.  Divorce.  Abuse.  A building's foundation shouldn't be filled with hail and mud and rodents because that's what the building will face.  No. You interlace the foundation with rods of steel so it will be as sturdy and sure as possible to withstand the storms and rats.

And clearly, this play had an attitude of normalizing certain aspects of society.  Part of the attitude is that being sexualized and homosexual is "normal."  And did you notice?  I'm as offended by the sexualization no matter what "brand."

I have spent my life.  I have spent MY LIFE.  Incalculable hours, energy being open-minded.  I went to a liberal, elitist East-coast college.  Further beyond, I read, explored, saw.  SAW.  I am not what you'd ever consider squeamish.  Spiders and worms?  Yes.  Alternative lifestyles and world views?  No.  I've spent too much energy making fun of people who blush at nudes in the museum.  Or picketed Mapplethorpe.  I've thought about many difficult issues and how they relate to my Christian world-view.  And I'm not afraid to do a face-to-face.  At a bar.  A den of inequity.

Now as I close in on 50, I think I'm allowed to have some ideas about what I believe.  I've had and have friends who are homosexual.  I understand the biology of it.  I don't believe it's a right way to behave.  Behave.  I didn't say be.  You can be, doesn't mean you have to behave.  I don't think it's a Right.  And don't even compare it to Civil Rights.  Don't even go there.  Racism is about someone standing there, not having done a thing and being negatively attributed.  Yea, negated, even.

Does that make everything I do correct and righteous?  No.
Am I threatened by it?  No.
Do I think it threatens my marriage?  No.
Do I think a homosexual is going to corrupt my son?  No.
I'm not that frail and neither is my marriage.  I just don't believe in living that out.

And I have a right to believe that.  It's America.  The United States.

Hey, you, you local production of an award-winning play, you may think normalizing sexuality and homosexuality is Good.  I don't.  So stop trying to convert me.  I hate it when people tell me what I should think.

Listen But Have Not Heard

I realized that conservatives & liberals will never be at peace with each other as long as we have different definitions for the same words.

Unless we really listen to each other, leaving the pundits & baggage outside, we'll never be civil with each other.

Perception is Reality, Part One

When I was in architecture school, we were discussing the notion of safety. The professor spoke about real safety vs perceived safety. What? you say? Architects learn about safety in architecture school?

Here's a hypothetical scenario. You're walking home late from the library back to your dorm. You are walking past large, illuminated windows. Through them, you see a sea of hunched shoulders, pretending to be deep into their poli-sci text. You are relieved to go home and looking forward to a bowl of ramen noodles and crashing. Of course you're safe! So safe, you don't even think about it.

The reality is, the path to the building is lit only by the glow from the fluorescents in the reading room. The reality is, everyone has an iPod on. The reality is, college students often rough house and scream in playfulness. If someone jumped out of the bushes, dragged you to the windowless side of the building, and did something horrible to you, you'd never be detected. Why? Even the students who might have their earphones off might look up if they heard your scream. They'd look out the window and see . . . blackness and their own reflection. Nobody in the library would see you, or hear you.

So, why were we discussing safety vs perceived safety in grad school? As architects, we need to think outside of our own particular goals and do our civic duty to consider the implications of the fenestration, encourage proper lighting, appropriate landscape design.

So how does this apply to us in our own lives?

Let's look at the difference between feeling safe, and being safe.
Do you automatically feel unsafe in an unfamiliar town?
Do you feel unsafe in an unfamiliar area of your own town?
Do you feel unsafe, or uncomfortable, when the people around you don't look like you?
Conversely, do you feel safe in you own neighborhood?
. . . do you feel safe because everyone around you looks like you?

Sometimes when I'm driving, I will forget to lock my door. No matter where I am, I will eventually remember to lock my doors. But, if I see a "suspicious looking" person coming toward me, that is the jab reminder to lock my doors. Even if I know they are locked, I'll press the switch again, for psychological reassurance. I remember years ago when I got that panick-jab when I saw a "suspicious looking" person - a black male. But after I locked the doors, it panick-jabbed me in another way:

Am I racist?

I thought and thought about it. It sickened me to think that no matter what I believed and how I acted consciously, that I might, deep down, harbor racism. Another time, another town. Again, a panick-jab that made me check my doors. This time, the "suspicious looking" person was a white male. . . a tremendous. relief. to me.

My next thoughts were: What is it that frightens me? Was it the swagger? The clothes? The cigarette butt hanging from his mouth? The tattoos? The multiple piercings? Would I be just as scared of a woman? And now that the all of that, especially the tattoos and piercings can be seen on every other stay-at-home mom and teenager in every suburb, what do those signals mean, anyway? When you get tattoos of skull and bones and dragons on your arm, when your son gets the nose and eyebrow piercing, what is that telling the world? Is it OK if said son is dressed in Abercrombie? Is it OK if you're driving a hybrid SUV? Can we no longer judge what is safe and what is not? Were we ever really able to? or were they prejudices we were allowed to harbor because it wasn't questioned? Was it actually less safe in the poor, latino neighborhoods? or was it less safe on the roads in the upper-middle-class white neighborhoods after all the 2-martini lunches?

What scares you? Is it the entire neighborhood? Why? Because of the poor? the color? I had a boyfriend who worked in Chinatown as an ESL teacher. Everyone he worked with was East Asian. Except him. He was in the society registry. He was in the signers of the Magna Carta thing. He wasn't the hardest worker and his job was in jeopardy. One day, he was complaining about his boss and the work environment, "I see all these slanted eyes looking at me." Clearly, he felt threatened. He transposed his unease into racism. And that. That, was the beginning of the end for us.

Are your fears perception or reality? Here are some questions I ask myself. I've developed them over the years as I've analyzed prejudices and sense of safety. It's simply what I use to question myself; to help me get one step beyond where I am. It requires me to look beyond my initial reactions. It requires me to look. And think.

Look. Think.

If I'm in an unfamiliar neighborhood:

1. What do the residents think? Are there bars on the homes? If the residents don't feel safe, it ain't safe. Get out, fast. Especially if you're the wrong color. Don't be naive.
   
2. Is it clean or dirty? Do the residents express a sense of responsibility and pride by caring for their homes and property?
3. Are there viable businesses? I don't mean pawn shops and bars. Is there a town center with a drugstore, a grocery, a burger joint? Chances are, there's a sense of community, belonging, responsibility, which engenders safety. Unless, of course, there are bars on the windows. (See #1, above.)
   

If I see people different than me:

1. How are they different?
2. Look past the differences and see the meaning
3. Are they well-put together, albeit not in your "style?"
4. Are they kind, simply using different words?
   etc.
   

I'm no fool. If I feel unsafe, I get out, first. Then think later. But I do think about it. Because I want the world to be better. I want me to be better.

Strive for peace with everyone . . .
-Hebrews 12:14 (ESV)

After this I looked and there
before me
was a great multitude that no one could count,
from every nation, tribe, people and language,
standing before the throne
and in front of the Lamb.
-Revelations 7:9a (NIV)

Application, II

There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female,
for you are all one in Christ Jesus.
- Galatians 3:28 (NIV)

Finally, all of you, live in harmony with one another; be sympathetic,
love as brothers, be compassionate and humble.
- 1 Peter 3:8 (NIV)

How do apply these commands in the trenches? Unless we strive to understand the depth and breadth of love and all its applications, we will not be able to live it out. Love is not just a good feeling, although He blessed us with the rush of chemicals in our brain. Love is a choice.

". . .we need to become racially literate, not post-racially blind."
- Lani Guinier, Professor, Harvard Law School

I have rarely read a piece about race that I agree with so whole-heartedly. Professor Guinier uses Professor Gates' arrest to encourage us to break out of the 1963 images of race and seek to become "racially literate." Originally an op-ed piece from The Chronicle of Higher Education, it was reprinted in the Harvard Law School website.

Link-on Blogs: Art and Memory

momster - Irene Nam is a photographer, an expat in Paris. It must be so hard being her! Irene's images have the serenity of a filled void, a thought-full pause, a dreamy reality. There's a diChirico-ness without the despair or loneliness. [You can buy her images from her shop, but all proceeds go to Save the Children, which provides "community-based reproductive health and family planning services."]

Heather Duncan - I found her while searching Richard Diebenkorn, one of my favorite artists. Her images had me from hello. She also has a studio blog and she says some interesting things to say.

Break My Heart - I don't know Bruce Richards, but he must have been a U.S. G.I. in 1960 when he took these pictures of Korea. From 1910 to 1945, Japan forcibly occupied Korea, making us their slave state. The soul of the Korean people were bruised and squeezed, but not broken. Despite having to wear Japanese style uniforms, cut our hair, change our names. Forbidden to speak or write Korean. They tried to kill our history, our culture, our literature, our spirit. Just five years after Japan's defeat in WWII, the Korean war started and lasted three years into the middle of 1953, something my parents lived through. These pictures, from 1960, are from just seven years later; the year I was born.

Race is Always a Factor . . .

You may have read or heard about the arrest of Harvard Professor Gates at his own Cambridge, MA home. Whatever your thoughts have been, read this from The Huffington Post:

Why This White Guy Was Not Arrested While Trying to Break Into a House Not His Own

By Warren Goldstein

Last October I flew to Sarasota, Fla., and arranged to stay at the home of a friend who was traveling at the time. She mailed me keys and an address.

I landed late and took a cab. When we pulled up in front of the house, which I'd never seen before, it was very dark, so I asked the cabbie to wait while I let myself in.

The keys didn't work in the front door. Or the back door. With rising anxiety -- it was 11 p.m., after all -- I called my friend, but she wasn't answering her cell phone. We tried the keys in both doors again; no luck.

Just before heading back to the airport, where I figured I could find a hotel, I tried my friend again. This time she picked up.

I explained my problem, describing the front door -- and she started laughing. "You're in the wrong place. You'd better get out of there before someone calls the cops." We were on the wrong street.

While the driver was consulting his GPS, sure enough, a cop appeared behind us. We stopped; the cop came over; the cabbie explained; he and the cop had a chuckle; the cop returned to his car; we drove on to the right place, and the keys fit. All was well.

I thought of this story when I read about the recent arrest of Henry Louis Gates after entering his own house.

The worst thing that happened to me was that I had to feel stupid and frustrated for 15 minutes. It never occurred to me that I wouldn't be able to talk my way out of any problem.

That's because my story involves four white people -- the cabbie, my friend, the cop, and me. I think now it's fair to say that there isn't a black man in America who could tell a story like mine.

Gates is probably the most famous black professor in the world, and was in his own home in one of the most liberal cities in the entire country. Of course he was furious. Still the white officer arrested him -- even after he knew it was Gates' home.

My hope is that lots of white folks will finally get what our African-American brothers and sisters have been trying to get through our thick skulls for about half a century now. It's different being black. No matter whether we think we are racists. And anyway, no person of color believes any white person who says, "I'm not a racist."

Every day, we white people benefit from being white, from white ancestry, and from acting as if we deserve the benefits of being white.

When we hunt for housing, real estate agents regard us more favorably. We don't get followed by store security. We get better deals from car salesmen, more generous treatment from juries, and -- despite myths of rampant affirmative action -- our kids rarely compete with equally qualified African-American kids because so many urban schools, where most black kids are educated, are flat-out disasters.

Racism thrives in many places -- in hospital emergency rooms, in bank loan departments, in country clubs and churches and synagogues and universities. And in police departments.

White cops treat black men as criminals all the time -- all the time. And the Police Benevolent Association (PBA) everywhere defends every white officer who gets caught out -- even on video.

In Cambridge, the city and police department dropped the charges, calling the incident "regrettable and unfortunate" -- not the PBA, which gave its "full and unqualified support" to the officer's actions.

The incident even provoked President Obama, who's stayed pretty far away from race issues since being elected, into saying that the police acted "stupidly." He's since backtracked and invited both Gates and the officer who arrested him, Sgt. James Crowley, to the White House for a beer. It's a great start on what needs to happen.

But it's only a start. We need to transform police training top to bottom on the subject of race. The fact that the Cambridge cop taught the class about racial profiling suggests there's a good bit more work to do on the subject. Then we can start on banks, credit card companies, churches, synagogues and universities.

Gates has always had flair -- for figuring out new ideas and new trends, and for generating publicity. I don't wish upon him the fear he must have felt in his doorway, treated like a criminal in his own home. But he may have given white Americans one of the best teaching moments about race that we've ever had. If only we pay attention to it.

This piece originally appeared on the website of Minnesota Public Radio.

Them Good Ole Days

Each person has their own telescope into the past. Some past that was, within their range of vision, good and right. Whether said wistfully, enthusiastically, or with a vengeance, the comment is something like this: I want America the way it used to be. It's followed with, or implied that, "Life was so good when I was growing up. I want it to be that America again."

I've heard this kind of statement from people of different generations and I wonder what it really means. Because what life was like for Lush Rush is different than what life was like in the 80's. Which America are they talking about? or is it about just a piece of childhood? or youth?

A former boss, who is now retirement age, said something like that to me. He is a good man. Hard working. Intelligent. Talented. If I do the math right, he was in his prime in the early 60's, living way above the Mason-Dixon. I can imagine his life. I'm sure it was good, and I don't blame him for wanting not only youth, but peace, contentment and a feeling of security. Because I'm sure that life in his upper-middle-class, all-white upbringing was peaceful, content and secure.

But.

His vision at 18, 20, or 22, and his telescope back into that time doesn't include the little black girl fire-hosed by a white officer. A public servant. I'm sure he didn't know that whites (Europeans) were allowed to immigrate here, but me? my dad? Africans? were severely restricted. He probably didn't think about the fact that a working woman might have her paycheck paid to the order of her husband. If he had seen the rest of the scenery, what would he think? What would he think of the mother and young son thrown off the train in the middle of a field for riding in the wrong section?

This is my theory of why my former boss thinks the good ole days are the good ole days. This mythical, indefinable town and time. Because people stayed in their place. Whites stayed with whites. The Chinese stayed in Chinatown. The blacks weren't allowed to move up. The poor stayed poor and the wealthy could hire them. And he's not a mean person. He just didn't have to deal with it. Any of it.

Maybe the 70's were better. It was 1970 or so that Governor Wallace asked for, and President Nixon released Lt. William Calley even though he was responsible for killing over 500 innocent civilians in what is known as the My-Lai Massacre. (Are your children in another room? Then go ahead - click on the links. Look at the photos.) Or the 80's with the huge increase in national deficit and the environment in which the rich got richer and poorer got poorer.

Instead of longing for the not so good Good Ole Days, I wish the people who long for them would take down their telescopes and look around. I don't have to be hosed down or spit on to know that there's no such thing as a sparkling bright world. In this life, anyway. But then again, those wishing for the good ole days may not see those injustices as big as I see them.

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Sticking Point

I believe that the unborn are alive.
I believe that whether the description is zygote, fetus, baby, wanted, unwanted, unplanned, inconvenient . . . the living is alive.

That Barak Obama does not himself believe in abortion but supports legislation that supports abortion, is deeply sad to me.

I believe that the lives of the living are as important as the lives of the unborn.
I believe that the living need justice, decency, equality, protection and respect.

And this, this is why Barak Obama's victory is deeply gratifying and uplifting to me.

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In Praise of Feminists

We women could not be what we are, or have what we have, or do what we do, were it not for the Feminists.

Period.

You may not agree with all their positions, (I don't!) but please stop bashing them.

PS
OK, OK. I'm a little cranky. I have read ONE TOO MANY quotes from conservatives who BASH Feminists not recognizing they owe much of their quality of life to those women who were not afraid to be labeled b*y, loud, obnoxious, satanic and angry. Cuz the were pissed - for themselves, their moms, sisters, you and me.

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Veterans

After reading a blog about Veteran's Day, I remembered, in fact, that it was Veteran's Day this past Tuesday.

I totally overlooked it. My son did not have a day off, neither did my husband, and being a Stay at Home, my schedule wasn't affected. I saw no parade. I saw no lines at the Cemetaries. No older men in uniform.

I get an inkling of the fear that must pervade them in battle. As I feel my sadness, I get an inkling of the sadness at their departure from home. I am rightfully ashamed that I overlooked this very important holiday. What is Holloween that we make such a fuss? What is Labor Day to us, really, except to mark the end of summer and the beginning of lower Shore rates??

So here, in my small way, I lift up a prayer to you. I honor you for serving us, doing your duty. I cry for you who came home damaged and never got over it. I honor you.



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My Heart Longs

My heart has been dark these days. Sometimes, I look up from my self-absorbed, comfortable life and, as if the scales have fallen from my eyes, I see pain. I see hatred. I see sadness. And I cannot let it go.

I know of a pastor in this area from the Democratic Republic of Congo. If you haven't heard about the atrocities there, you can read about it here. His family - mom, dad, sibling, friends. . . are trapped. They are afraid of the bullets, afraid of the cholera from the refugee camps.

There are . . . have been death threats on the President-elect.

One of Boo's little friends from Nursery school was diagnosed with leukemia on Friday. It's the "better" kind of leukemia to have. He started chemo right away. This 6 year old boy has an 80% chance. 80%. That's not good enough for his mom and dad. His grandparents. Aunts, uncles, friends.

Hatred snarls, teeth bared, mouth foaming, and roams the earth. Tears brim my eyes and drip into the dark cavity in my chest. I look up to my left, up to the right, the enemies hover the land. I have but two choices: despair or trust. Despair or Trust.

My heart despairs, but the Spirit within me Trusts Him who reigns:

If God is for us, who can be against us? He who did not spare his own Son,
but gave him up for us all—how will he not also, along with him, graciously give
us all things? Who will bring any charge against those whom God has chosen? It
is God who justifies. Who is he that condemns? Christ Jesus, who died—more than
that, who was raised to life—is at the right hand of God and is also interceding
for us. Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Shall trouble or hardship
or persecution or famine or nakedness or danger or sword? As it is written:
"For your sake we face death all day long; we are considered as sheep to be slaughtered." No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. - from Romans 8

Let the morning bring me word of your unfailing love, for I have put my trust in you. Show me the way I should go, for to you I lift up my soul. - Psalm 143:8

I pray for the people across the sea, across the savanna in the Democratic Republic of Congo, the Sudan and Uganda as war and cholera rage. I pray for this country. What kind of a country would assassinate their own president?! I pray for the little boy up the street, his mom, his dad.

I know You are True. . .I need You to be True.
Where else do we turn?

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A Calling

I am an architect. But don't ask me about your curtains. I've actually had people ask me to help them pick curtains. OK, maybe because architects are supposed to have good taste? I don't know how to break to them that I dislike curtains.

I digress. (Please hold the 'so what's new' comments!)


The projects I've worked on are "institutional," meaning public schools, hospitals, civic work. I've been a part of some fabulous work. One was featured in our profession's national journal. I spoke about it at a national conference in Atlanta. Others were highly complex, multi-phased internal renovations of hospitals requiring no 'down time.'

They are fascinating to me, but those are not my favorite projects. I have two. One is lovely to look at, one is not; both are beautiful in spirit.

The first is an elementary school located in the quaint town of Brookville in northern Pennsylvania. Originally designed in 1939 by the firm I worked for, it was innovative in its use of steel in combination with wood. It is a lovely neo-Classical structure anchored by a clock tower. Literally, generations walked to that school, first as the high school, then an elementary school. The days of walking to school are all but gone. Most school are mega-schools, supposedly to save on costs. I don't think anyone figured out the social and emotional cost of losing the neighborhood school. This school almost met a similar fate, but the school board changed its mind and we were privileged to be able to convert it to current standards. Today, parents who walked to that school walk their own children there to school. And the clock works.

The second is also an elementary school. It is in the declined post-industrial city of Johnstown. The plan was to abandon this ugly, windowless building in a questionable neighborhood and build a new building elsewhere. There was so much opposition to the new site that the Board was backed into keeping the 1970's building. Although unspoken, everyone knows some ugly whites didn't want some little black children in their neighborhood. We were given this ugly building. We couldn't give them windows, but we gave them all the benefits that other kids in nice neighborhoods have. Because, why shouldn't they?

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