my 2001

Some thoughts popped into my head this past 9/11, thoughts about my own evolution as a political person. Often I describe the year 2001 as my big transformation from just a kid to a caring, voting, adult; after all, it was the year I turned 18, graduated high school and went off to college. This story has been co-opted by my biggest political opponent, my father, many a time. He prefers to think of my move to New York and graduate school as the event that turned me into a liberal.

I suppose between 2001 and 2007 he considered me conservative. Or more accurately, he had no clue.

As meaningful as it would be to become politically aware in 2001, the year the U.S. experienced the largest, most deadly attack on our own soil since Pearl Harbor, I think my age and my move to college was purely coincidental. The transformation started much further back, when I was just a kid parroting the beliefs of my elders.

What do I mean? I mean pointing to a friend's flag pin in second grade and telling her how good it was to wear it, considering we were at war with Iraq. Desert Storm was the first big conflict I remember, and it seemed so simple back then. Saddam was bad, and we were good; we had to help Kuwait.

Parroting wasn't always so benign, though. I am forever grateful to a Sunday School teacher, though I cannot remember her name, for showing me that my father's use of the term A-rab was not the most appropriate. We were discussing people of the Bible, and little me pronounced Arab in a way that is used to mock, though I thought that was how it was said. Dad said it, after all! Of course, grown-ups say a lot of things we shouldn't say.

I'm grateful for teachers who didn't chastise, but rather corrected and redirected. I don't think I was aware enough to ascribe to any political party, though I liked President Bush. He was spoken of in a positive light by the grown-ups around me. I "voted" for him in Weekly Reader, though to be fair, Mr. Dukakis' name was just strange enough to make me lean to the friendly, monosyllabic Bush.

When Clinton won in 1992, I had no feelings either way, except that our own mock election in 4th grade had the same result. How fun! So I was on Perot's campaign team, and we didn't win...oh well. All three candidates were represented by friends and classmates. There was nothing ugly, nothing negative, about that little play-election.

Looking back, I guess I didn't hear the criticism from my conservative father, or the alleged negative opinions of my mother toward Hillary. Throughout the Clinton administration, I grew up, I grew away, I grew to question. By 2001, I was primed to rebel, but I had absolutely no clue what to rebel against.

The Canadian protesters outside our tour bus in Toronto didn't clue me in. I thought, "Canadians don't like Americans?" I didn't know enough about Bosnia or our involvement in the Balkans at that moment. The whole impeachment process didn't stir anything in me, either for or against the Democrats. I just didn't like the idea of Bill being unfaithful to Hillary. Of course I was sad to hear about people killed in Oklahoma City and abroad. But where do I direct my new power of opinion?

Then the day came, when I woke up to the sound of Dad shouting "Ahab the A-rab has done it again!" The morning news was fixated on the Twin Towers, and later on the Pentagon and United 93 in Pennsylvania. I had planned to visit the high school that day, and by the time I got there, everyone was dismissed early. I shared my distaste for Dad's initial reaction, and my teacher agreed.

Later, I read about Americans targeted for being Muslim, for looking Muslim, and for sounding Muslim, and I knew that, just as the brand new "War on Terror" didn't give us a single national enemy as we had in the past, I would not direct my criticism against one person, or one party, but against ideas that did not ring true.

It would take me longer, beyond the year 2001, to voice that criticism. So I guess I didn't reveal myself as the opposition even then. Maybe that's why Dad was so surprised. Hindsight gives me some comfort, as if it proves that the adolescent angst I felt was all about learning to think for myself and realizing that people around me did not, would not, or would at least prefer I keep it to myself.

there's a name for it

Despite past attempts to google "unilateral edema," I only now have the name of a fairly rare syndrome that has been bothering me for a decade:  May-Thurner Syndrome.  This latest epiphany comes after paying a vascular specialist $35 to take a 2-second look at my leg and call up her colleague on her snazzy iPhone 4.

Now I have thought previously that I had the definitive answers and treatment would commence, but those were false idols, apparently.  I guess the tendonosis (yes it's a word despite Google Chrome's protests), and lymphedema are only part of the story.

So to explain it briefly, my left iliac vein (vena cava...vein coming up from my left leg) has been compressed by my naughty little artery that passes over it and slightly to the left.  The vein walls narrow, blood flows less freely and swelling ensues.  There you have it.

Treatment is up for discussion, considering I have been told that I'm too young for the invasive stuff (with a hint of "with all the old people out there suffering from fatal conditions, why are you complaining?"), and I really don't know the full consequences just yet.  What my reading thus far has taught me is that I am just the right age and gender to be afflicted with such a syndrome.  It presents predominantly in women in their teens to twenties, and is possibly congenital.  So take that, old people, you aren't the only ones with problems!

Now the next step is to decide how vocal I want to be about all this.  Do I tell my whole family, considering the risk of clotting?  Do I risk them not taking it seriously enough, or worse, freaking out like a bunch of Chicken Littles?  Just when do I get to make my sister feel guilty for calling this actual affliction my "fat foot"?

I do feel mismanaged by all the doctors I've ever seen.  Except Dr. Daou (so far...).  I tried to express this to the specialist, and her response was, "Well, no one ever gave this diagnosis because they aren't specialists."  That besides the point.  What I want to know is why no doctor has ever sent me to her before.  Ten years.  Really?!  Everything I'm reading now states that at the top of the differential for unilateral (one-sided) swelling is DVT, deep vein thrombosis (clots).  And right below that...May-Thurner!  So let's break it down:  back when the swelling first presented, no one took me to the doctor.  First betrayal of a child's trust in her grown-ups.  Then when I take matters into my own hands, the doctor scans my ankle but does not check for clots. Not until 2010 is an ultrasound of both legs performed that rules out clotting.  But no one took that next step. Blame it on a succession of substitute doctors (Daou was out of town) but either way...they are supposed to do their jobs.  Now, finally, I have an actual diagnosis.

So, what's stopping me from believing that doctors don't bother reading new papers and journals to update their differentials and help the people who trust them?  Seems to me healthcare "reform" could go a lot further.

But don't forget, no matter how young you are, be your own advocate!  I had my parents and doctors etc. yelling and griping and throwing up their hands in frustration, but I've got my diagnosis now.  Healthcare is for everyone, not just the older generations who for the most part have been irresponsible with their own bodies (Dad, for one, has never sought treatment for his tinnitus and continues to work with heavy machinery).  No young girl should ever feel like I used to feel.

class warfare

I'm sick of rich people complaining.  And if that is a prejudicial statement (which it most definitely is...), then I'm not sorry.  Every newsanchor and pundit out there screaming about class warfare is doing so merely because they belong to the Haves, not the Have Nots, and want to remain in that category.

Of course these categories are not so easy to define.  In terms of having a roof over my head and transportation and food and clothing, I am a Have.  In terms of a career and investments and retirement, I am certainly a Have Not.  I've been feeling more and more like a Have Not lately in political and social terms.

Family is that network in which Have versus Have Not should not matter.  Or so I believed, naïvely.  Last summer, a portion of my family went on a beach vacation.  Those who did not go had various reasons for sticking around Ohio.  A newborn baby, farm work, and lack of funds.  Guess what my reason was.  While I did  not care very much about the first time, I am changing my mind now.  Namely because of something my sister said.  She announced that it was time to plan the next "family" beach vacation, on some island off the coast of North Carolina, in a house with too many amenities.  She estimated $1000 per couple.  First...we aren't all couples.  Second...who the hell can afford $1000 for a week at the beach?!  I told her that I can't really afford that.  What could I afford, she asked.  Well, honestly...nothing.  Everything I earn goes toward health insurance and loan payments.  And I'm not earning much these days as a substitute teacher.  Here's her response:

"Then you aren't coming."

Wow.  Talk about familial love.  Not.  I've been trying to figure out her inexplicable transition from lower middle class farm girl to uppity bitch for many years now.  I've got no explanation.

Here's what I want to know...why did the rest of the family not rebuke her?!  #1, we're still in a recession, no matter what economists say.  #2, we aren't a rich family, so why are they acting like they deserve to spend a week lying on cushions while slaves feed them grapes? #3, is it still a "family" vacation when one family member is so unceremoniously prohibited from attending?  One disclaimer:  my dad did say he could pay part of my way.  But that doesn't really help.  Why?  Because I want to be independent.  I don't think he realizes that.

I don't think any of them realize how badly I want to be independent.  I want my own home, my own car, my own salary.  I want all that investment and 401k crap.  But I cannot seem to get started in this "job market" or lack thereof.  I don't think any of them realize what I gave up when I moved back to the farm.  I had Manhattan.  I'm starting to think I'd be better off impoverished in the Big Apple than on my family's dole.  At least I'd be independent and free from that sister's selfishness.

So now I'm faced with a decision.  Do I go on vacation, or not?  Now I don't want to create the illusion that I don't pay for anything at all entertaining or self-indulgent.  I have plans to go to the rally in DC with my man, I've bought "interview" clothes (...I guess I was overly optimistic that day), and today I bought ice cream and Chipotle.  But do I want to be trapped on an island with people who don't really understand me?  Who apparently don't even care about me and my situation?  You'd think that they'd have some modicum of empathy at least on a very basic, biological level.  Nope.  As I right and drum up the rage that I felt Saturday night, I'm thinking I already made my decision.  If Rachel can boycott Chipotle and McDonald's for ideological reasons, than I can boycott the self-entitled "family" vacation that has brought class warfare into the confines of my familial relationships (that are, I believed, supposed to be safe and comforting, not critical and damning).  I cannot in good conscience spend hundreds of dollars to go to the beach with people who drive luxury vehicles and whine about their retirements while there are people starving...starving for work, food, and financial independence.

I may vote for a Republican or two on the local level.  That's just how it goes in Ohio.  And this is not to say that Democrats are not Haves...they most certainly are...but they seem to care, even with all the economic troubles, about the Have Nots more than Republicans ever could.  That's why I get a sick, twisting feeling in my stomach when I hear and read "class warfare," "regular folks," "entrepreneurs," and all the other conservative (and upper class white) spoutings these days.

I am a Have Not, and though I may not always be one, I'll never forget how it feels to search for understanding from the ones who are biologically inclined to provide it, and come up with nothing.

last week or thereabouts

I’m sitting in my 90 year old grandmother’s living room tonight, watching and waiting for any sign she’s having trouble walking or otherwise getting around.  It’s not out of the ordinary for someone her age to be achy, or to require a walker, yet we’re all wondering what tomorrow’s tests and scans will reveal.  Her pain medication might make her more unsteady than usual; therefore I am having this impromptu sleepover.

Now the young and restless voice in my head is telling me I am too young for these worries and responsibilities, yet who else can do it?  In the other house there is a 6 month old, and Dad isn’t much of a nurse.  But still, here I am, highly educated and desperately wanting to see the world, and I’m stuck in a living room.  Naturally my thoughts drift to my mother, whose expertise would be most welcome in a time such as this.  It still grates on me that the loss of my mother requires further loss, in terms of sacrifice.  A heightened sense of responsibility toward my family, and thus the surrender (or just postponement, I hope) of global dreams.

The closest we have to a medical expert in the family now is a veterinarian…not that her presence isn’t of any comfort, but Mom’s quiet authority was quite a luxury, looking back on it.  Prescriptions and scans and exams were not so incoherent.  Prognosis was not so scary.  And with just a few words she could put to rest the inevitable negativity and fear that Dad has running through his head right now.  While my sister and I are thinking short term:  monitor Grandma’s reaction to the pain medication and get her ready for her CT in the morning; Dad is leaping ahead:  power of attorney and hospital stays and dampened spirits at the upcoming birthday celebration.

The quiet right now, punctuated by my grandmother’s big clock and the shuffling of pages of her book, is rather disquieting.  I’m not exactly sure how worried to be.  It’s been a while since I have been this close to the medical goings on of a family member.  With Mom, it was brutally sudden, and with Grandpa, it was quiet and expected.  Not since Grandma Elliott have I had to play prescription courier or anything like that.  That was seven years ago.

I was just thinking the other day, how it feels that I’ve accomplished so little in this decade.  With only a few months remaining…will I make up for it?

Epic Pickle Fail

So...a number of contributing factors could be responsible for the failure of my grand pickle experiment.  I had the right 2 gallon crock.  I had Grandma's instructions.  I had a boat load of cucumbers.  However, it appears that the brine either evaporated or leeched through the bottom of the crock to such an extent that the top slices were exposed.  Hence icky mold and flies all over!  Also, my efforts to sanitize the crock and the pickles (I had to separate the good ones from some white fuzzy ones...) might have backfired.

I was decidedly deterred when I discovered the moldy cucumber slices.  However, I do have some cucumbers left, clean and fuzz-free, so I am now encouraged to make a second, edited attempt.  Instead of the crock, I'll start right away with sealed jars to prevent brine loss.  And these jars will be washed and rinsed thoroughly with vinegar to kill anything that might feast on the cucumber.  The challenge will be adjusting the spices from Grandma's 2-gallon recipe.

Financially...that's still around a $20 loss.  Much worse than the spilled $1 coke in the car.  But I'll keep trying to reincarnate this family tradition.

oh, intolerance

I should have known from the moment I chose to write about Ground Zero, it would follow me to the end of my days.  There is always something to report and debate, it seems, involving that hallowed piece of Manhattan real estate.  The problem is one that is ever present in a dense urban space like New York City:  proximity.  To honor the victims, must we purge every little thing that is not sacred from Lower Manhattan?  From the whole Island?  What exactly is and isn't appropriate to be near the site?  Century 21?  Burlington Coat Factory?  That is what I want to ask people who oppose the development of a Muslim community center on Park Street, two blocks from Ground Zero.

Our national reaction to 9/11 was unifying, yet it was not monolithic.  And I use monolithic instead of homogeneous in honor of my preoccupation with monuments.  We bombed Afghanistan, yet politicians agreed that to beat the terrorists we would also have to win hearts and minds of moderate Muslims at home and abroad.  Two very different methods.  And as Fareed Zakaria wrote in Newsweek, the tenuous American relationship with moderate Islam could only be strengthened by the presence of a community center such as the ill-labeled "Ground Zero Mosque."  It would be a celebration not of tragedy but of resilience.  A manifestation of our constitutional protection of religious freedom and equality.

Here are my problems with the opposition:
1.  Stop calling it the "Ground Zero Mosque"!  It's not at Ground Zero.  There is a specific, bounded section of Lower Manhattan that retains the sanctity and dignity of the Memorial, and then there is the rest of the city.  It is not at the "epicenter" of 9/11.  For in my thesis, I argue that 9/11 had no epicenter, since it involves the Pentagon and Pennsylvania countryside.  Yes, plane debris and quite possibly human remains fell on the site at 45 Park, just like it fell on the entire area surrounding the World Trade Center.  This hasn't stopped the development of other buildings for fear of insensitivity.

2.  It's not just a mosque.  It's a place for the American Muslims who are already in the city to congregate, along with anyone else who isn't a bigot.  They own the building.  They can do what they will with the building.  The worship space is an improvement on the existent, cramped mosque not too far away from Ground Zero.  Maybe those who are offended by its proximity should reflect on their own prejudice against an entire religion, while they have no problem with WTC souvenirs and tourism and corporations covering the area like ants at a picnic.

3.  I searched for evidence that mosques are built as signs of victory.  And I found no scholarly sources.  Just conservative and alarmist blogs and articles.  Listening to Rush Limbaugh is not research, people.  One article even erroneously suggests that the al-Aqsa Mosque in Jerusalem was built to celebrate the destruction of the Temple.  Oops.  Romans destroyed the second Temple in 70 CE (That's AD for any non-academics).  The mosque and the Dome of the Rock (built in the 7th Century CE) which now stand atop this sacred mount are not signs of victory over Judaism or Christianity, but examples of our commonalities.  The place is sacred to us all.  That's why they built on top of it during a period of Muslim conversion and rule.  BTW, before the Crusades, Jerusalem was a city where Muslims, Jews and Christians lived in relative harmony.

4.  We all want to tread lightly when it comes to the feelings of 9/11 victims' families.  This is one reason why the rebuilding at Ground Zero has been so slow (apart from contracts and litigation).  Yet these people should not be paraded (literally and figuratively) by opponents and politicians to shame anyone who supports the center.  In fact, there are families who support it themselves.  They want peace and closure.  Understanding.  They want to rise above the hate that drove the terrorists to kill their loved ones.  How dare anyone try to make me or other supporters feel guilty?  It's a desperate, personal attack that smacks of malicious zeal.

5.  Seeing articles and blogs and facebook polls plastered with the face of Osama bin Laden just make me sick to my stomach.  And I'm not even Muslim.  Like I commented on a cousin's post, it's just plain slander.  Not all Muslims are bin Ladens.  How much do you want to bet that Osama would oppose the mosque due to its interfaith, inclusive nature?  I'd bet my life savings.  We should do the homework and make sure the funding has no ties to al-Qaeda.  Yet the pictures go too far.

6.  Remember our American values?  Equality?  Freedom?  You're treating Muslims like criminals and second-class citizens.  Regardless of your religious affiliation, you should respect the rights of others to deal with the tragedy of 9/11 and the rebirth of Lower Manhattan in their own way.  The mosque is not illegal, as much as you hope it is.  Our constitution does not support prejudice, though we have failed in the past.  We have persecuted Jews, Catholics, Communists, Irish, Germans in the 18th century and in the 20th.  When will we ever learn?  (I have deliberately omitted slavery, here, for that is an issue all its own)

Anyone who reads this and feels like repeating the Fox News talking points, stop and think, please.  Do some real research.  There is no more a Muslim agenda than there is a gay agenda.  Our culture can take it.  We can all be friends two blocks away from one of the most sacred spots in America.  Turn off Limbaugh and read some history.  Shake hands with a Muslim neighbor (if you can find one...they might be scared of you) and learn a little about cultural exhange.  Prove that you are wise enough to distinguish a radical terrorist from the family down the street.

The National September 11th Memorial and Museum are dedicated to the memory of those who died and the end of the cycle of hate.  Don't help Sarah Palin, Limbaugh & Co. perpetuate the hate.  Please.

happy birthday martha

Lately I've been trying some new ways to connect with the women that have had the greatest impact on my life. 

Well, more than lately.  I have to admit that getting involved with the sanctuary committee at church was about more than flexing my architectural historical muscles...it was also about feeling out the shoes left by my mother's absence.  And of course I cannot fill them.  No matter how many times I'm compared to her.  But I did my little part despite the toxic political atmosphere. 

My latest endeavor was sewing cloth school bags for a charity.  Naturally, the sewing machine I found in the basement was less than useful, so I used my grandmother's machine.  Which is a bonus because she tweaked the design and the directions a little bit to make it simpler.  The stitches are rather crooked, with the occasional "whoa what happened" curves and snags, but the bags should hold.  I realized a little too late that I made them Florida colors.  But I don't think the bags are going to a part of the world where that will matter.  It's a way to connect to Grandma without having to force anything.  She knows all there is to know about needles and thread, and I don't.  And because the project sends school bags and supplies to children who might not otherwise go to school, including young girls who just need an education to show them there's more to life than what poverty or class or race has given them, I think I am fulfilling that Phi Beta Kappa goal of spreading the importance of education.

The next project won't be charity, but it might be the most difficult.  I'd like to try my other grandmother's pickle recipe.  Finding cucumbers won't be a problem (though my window of opportunity will close soon), since there are so many farmers markets around here.  The problem is pickling salt.  Walmart has pre-seasoned pickling and canning mixes (Dill, Bread & Butter, etc.) that don't help me much.  No surprise that Walmart is not helping.  But I can't even find any at the grocery store.  I'm stumped.  And I'm not even sure I have enough jars.

In my spare time I've been daydreaming of my own place to call home.  The stash of furniture and kitchen utensils and home décor I have in my father's basement has been taunting me...if only I had somewhere to put it and see it every day and live my life.  Most of what I bought from Target last week was to decorate my hypothetical dream apartment.  Those pillows will look so nice on my striped loveseat!

I do manage to stop myself from buying expensive pots and pans and knives.  So far.  I just can't wait.  So there's my Martha Stewart ode for the day. 

compassion

It's not the be-all end-all...or end-all be-all...but something this country (as a whole society) lacks is compassion. Today there was a lady in line behind me who ordered a sub. No big deal there. Except that when it came down to picking veggies, she explained it wasn't for her...it was for the guy outside holding a sign that said "hungry." Now I've tried to give food instead of money before, and it didn't work. For some it's a health issue--food given by a stranger made them sick at some point--and for others, well, they'd rather have cigarettes or alcohol instead of food, unfortunately. If every single American was like the sub lady, we might be in a better situation than we are now.

I know it isn't so simple. Some people are too proud to ask for help. Others abuse the help that is given. All the Christmas food baskets my mother ever delivered couldn't solve the world's problems. But they helped those families have a merrier holiday.

A lot of Americans are afraid of becoming a "welfare state." These same Americans bemoan the dreary future for Medicare and Social Security (which is welfare...shhh! don't tell them!) And while Europe is slowly digging itself out of a rather deep financial hole, these Americans point eastward as if we need to learn a lesson. Well, we can learn a lesson right here on our own soil. The lack of compassion for others, those who are losing jobs and houses and livelihoods, is exactly what is sending this country down the drain. Like dirty bathwater. We cannot be the great nation of decades past when we have our own tired and poor yearning to be free (of debt) right here and now.

I've made no attempt to hide my bias toward my generation. I consider myself a bit of an advocate for the graduates and the interns and the assistants out there, being one myself. Yes, we need to create jobs for those who have lost them, which is what, in the millions now? But my focus is on the people who have not yet gotten a job. And I'm talking a real job with benefits and retirement and your very own desk and email account. I gave one of those up to go back to school, and although I most likely would have been "redirected" from the museum in the course of their renovation/lay-off-good-people campaign, I sometimes kick myself. There are "kids" out there, fellow generation Y-ers, who like me have moved back in with parents. Some send out 70 resumés a day and others have given up. Yes. There are recent graduates who have given up already. So much for commencing.

What is Congress telling my generation, when the interests of unions and industry make them focus on jobs for the older generations? When they filibuster an extension of unemployment benefits? Why can't we have the American Dream? Because we voted for Obama? Is this revenge?

I am about to commence the job search once again. And while the prospect of change has me a little giddy, I am deflated somewhat by the lack of compassion in my own backyard. When a sibling who has been working for over a decade complains about her retirement fund dwindling in such a way that (and I'm pretty sure this wasn't unintended) demonizes the very thing that has thrown me a lifeline--federal stimulus--I infer that older generations don't care what happens to us. As long as they can retire comfortably and drive their luxury vehicles, life is great. Meanwhile, remember those graduates I mentioned? Like me? Screw 'em. It's our fault for being born in the eighties. I should have known better...

Guess what. We'll be in charge some day. We are the future leaders. And then the next generation and then the generation after that. I've heard several conservatives preach about leaving debt for their grandchildren to pay...but no one is crying about hanging future generations out to dry. Let us get our start. Let us roll over our IRAs some day. It's not all about you and your retirement fund. Your wealth would be worthless, quite literally, if the next generations can't get their wealth started. So there's my socialist rant. With a capitalist twist...I want money. Let me earn it!

But I pledge this now: I will never drive a luxury vehicle.

conservation is communism

Just a mini-entry. I have faced adversity (and jokes of violence) in regard to my efforts to help the planet in any way I can only from one group of people. No, not the RNC. I don't even exist to them. I'm talking about my very own family. I am baffled that the idea of recycling paper plates incites such ire. Confused that rinsing plastic jugs results in angry glares. And disappointed that crushing cardboard boxes causes so much hate. Most of all I am hurt that my opinions and advice, so willingly given in the face of these reactions, cannot sway them to reduce, reuse and recycle. I am not surprised that government advertizements and cartoon spokesanimals fail to do it. But I thought they'd listen to me.

Our family has farmed the land for generations. Farmers should have the loudest environmentalist voices out there.