I believe that reality must be a balance. We cannot know good without knowing bad. We cannot experience happiness without also experiencing sadness. We must feel pain to know what pleasure feels like. I am confident that it must be this way, but I can't help but feel that the intensity of the simultaneously oppositional tugs is sometimes a bit stronger than is universally necessary, which merely leaves me feeling stretched too thin, like (in the words of Bilbo Baggins) butter spread over too much bread.
I am about to embark on a month of adventures. I'm traveling by cruise ship to Key West and Cazumel, and then returning to the Midwest mere hours before leaving for New York City for five days of exploration. Both trips involve great friends, fun experiences, and I hope lots of pictures and memories. I have not had a full-blown vacation in several years, so I'm completely pumped. Both of these trips have long been on my 'must do' list, and I'm checking them off in short order.
But the forces of the universe won't have it all to the good, it seems. While I'm planning for these wonderful trips with wonderful friends, I'm feeling the oppositional tug of concern and worry for the well being of one of the truly dearest people in my life, who's battling a serious illness. All my hopes and thoughts are directed toward her recovery, but I'm fully conscious of the difficulties presented to her, all the while I'm flitting about on planes, subways, and cruise ships. The joy of traveling will be blended with the concern for my friend. The excitement of my July co-exists with the hard decisions and anxiousness of hers.
My life has quite often been a series of tolerable oppositional tugs, the tensions never terribly extreme. This time, however, I feel the tautness so acutely it makes my heart race nervously when I think about it. I wake up at night and instantly my mind moves from excitement of the impending trips to anxiety about my friend's well being (or vice versa)...the two poles strike practically simultaneously, and then I continually bounce from one to the next, which leaves me reeling and awake for lengthy periods of time.
As an intellectual and half-assed amateur philosopher, I know what all of this means and acknowledge the inevitability of opposition. I just, for the first time, have absolutely no idea how to cope with it.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Friday, June 19, 2009
Memories of Dad
I've been a slacker on blogging, but since it's Father's Day this weekend, I thought I'd better play equal and list some dad memories just like I did for mom. This in honor of the fact that my parents are always worried about making everything equal between my brother and me.
1) I love to read, and have since I learned how. Part of the reason is because I got regular trips to the library on Saturdays. Dad would drive Dirk and me up there and we were allowed to look around as long as we wanted and to pick multiple books. It was part of the routine of our family life, so it became part of my routine as an individual, too. Relatedly, I remember Dad reading stories out of a magazine he got. It was a religious magazine for adults, but it always had a kid's story in it. We'd all sit on the couch while he read it aloud to us.
2) Dad traveled a lot for his job in Sioux City. We were always sorry to see him go (except that Mom took us out to eat--on a week night!!!--while he was away), but it was worth the separation when he came back with presents for us. As soon as he pulled into the driveway, we'd dash out to the car, ostensibly to greet him. Really, though, we were dashing for our new toys. They were never enormous gifts, but they were new and exciting. Once, around Halloween, I got a little plush jack-o-lantern that hid a ghost inside it. I think of it now as more of a recognition that he thought of us while he was away, and that he missed us. Even the hyperactive little girl.
3) There's still a well-known song in our house, called "Hershey Kiss Eyes." It's the song my dad wrote for me. My main memories of him singing it are around the dinner table, and after we ate. I'd sit on his lap and squirm (as usual) and he'd sing it. "She has Hershey Kiss eyes, and ruby red lips. Cute little toes and fat little hips [Ed note: Hey!!!!]. She can wiggle and she can squirm. She's her daddy's wiggle worm." He can't sing to save his life, but for this song, it didn't matter. It was perfection.
4) In addition to the library trips, one of the greatest patterns in our family was discussion. We were allowed to ask all kinds of questions, and just to generally question everything. My parents are devoutly religious, but that did not mean I wasn't able to doubt and question growing up. I could ask his opinion and contradict him all I wanted, and I was never punished for it. And if Dad didn't know an answer to something, he'd help me find it. I remember when I was about 12, I started hearing the first anti-Catholic crap in my life. I was baffled because my best friend in Sioux City had been Catholic, as were some of my cousins, and they all seemed like the same to me. Dad offered me a book on the similarities and differences and told me that Catholics were his friends the same as Protestants, and that any differences between the two groups were minor compared to the similarities. That still means a lot to me, even though I'm not particularly connected to either camp at this point in my life. Just the fact that he was intellectual about it made all the difference. I truly, absolutely believe that my success as an academic is rooted in my dad's approach to life and questions.
5) Dad likes to quote an old saying: "The best gift a father can give his kids is to love their mother." And he can quote it because he lives it. My dad still loves my mom as much (or more) than he did when he married her 40 years ago. He compliments her, gives her little thoughtful gifts, etc. This particularly struck me one time when he was going through a rough patch in his life, spending his weeks away from home, and coming home on weekends. We were in the Walgreen's parking lot, and he was talking about how hard it all was. He said, "I sit in a hotel room, and I just miss my best friend." His best friend=my mom. It was all I could do not to bawl, a similar struggle I face as I write that out. I'm perpetually single, and I sometimes think part of that is because I have yet to meet a man who will treat me the way my dad treats my mom. Those are enormous shoes to fill, and not just because he's 6ft7in. I fear that sounds creepy, me comparing dudes to my dad, but if you have a dad like mine, I guess it's inevitable.
6) One last little one. I remember one Saturday during lunch, my dad and I had an insult-off. We went on and on, trying to take each other down. It was awesome. I eventually won, but I think it's because he let me. Dad's hilarious (sometimes in a groaner sense, sure), and I've always loved that we can all just joke around and make ourselves laugh till we hurt. Dad's confident enough in himself that he's willing to take a few slams from his (truly loving and respectful) kids.
7) Okay, I lied about 6 being the last. One last thing. He didn't spank me nearly as much as I deserved. And I always had ample warning that punishment was imminent. And he never actually hurt me when he did it, despite the fact that his hands were bigger than my butt--at least for a few short years. That's a good dad for you.
1) I love to read, and have since I learned how. Part of the reason is because I got regular trips to the library on Saturdays. Dad would drive Dirk and me up there and we were allowed to look around as long as we wanted and to pick multiple books. It was part of the routine of our family life, so it became part of my routine as an individual, too. Relatedly, I remember Dad reading stories out of a magazine he got. It was a religious magazine for adults, but it always had a kid's story in it. We'd all sit on the couch while he read it aloud to us.
2) Dad traveled a lot for his job in Sioux City. We were always sorry to see him go (except that Mom took us out to eat--on a week night!!!--while he was away), but it was worth the separation when he came back with presents for us. As soon as he pulled into the driveway, we'd dash out to the car, ostensibly to greet him. Really, though, we were dashing for our new toys. They were never enormous gifts, but they were new and exciting. Once, around Halloween, I got a little plush jack-o-lantern that hid a ghost inside it. I think of it now as more of a recognition that he thought of us while he was away, and that he missed us. Even the hyperactive little girl.
3) There's still a well-known song in our house, called "Hershey Kiss Eyes." It's the song my dad wrote for me. My main memories of him singing it are around the dinner table, and after we ate. I'd sit on his lap and squirm (as usual) and he'd sing it. "She has Hershey Kiss eyes, and ruby red lips. Cute little toes and fat little hips [Ed note: Hey!!!!]. She can wiggle and she can squirm. She's her daddy's wiggle worm." He can't sing to save his life, but for this song, it didn't matter. It was perfection.
4) In addition to the library trips, one of the greatest patterns in our family was discussion. We were allowed to ask all kinds of questions, and just to generally question everything. My parents are devoutly religious, but that did not mean I wasn't able to doubt and question growing up. I could ask his opinion and contradict him all I wanted, and I was never punished for it. And if Dad didn't know an answer to something, he'd help me find it. I remember when I was about 12, I started hearing the first anti-Catholic crap in my life. I was baffled because my best friend in Sioux City had been Catholic, as were some of my cousins, and they all seemed like the same to me. Dad offered me a book on the similarities and differences and told me that Catholics were his friends the same as Protestants, and that any differences between the two groups were minor compared to the similarities. That still means a lot to me, even though I'm not particularly connected to either camp at this point in my life. Just the fact that he was intellectual about it made all the difference. I truly, absolutely believe that my success as an academic is rooted in my dad's approach to life and questions.
5) Dad likes to quote an old saying: "The best gift a father can give his kids is to love their mother." And he can quote it because he lives it. My dad still loves my mom as much (or more) than he did when he married her 40 years ago. He compliments her, gives her little thoughtful gifts, etc. This particularly struck me one time when he was going through a rough patch in his life, spending his weeks away from home, and coming home on weekends. We were in the Walgreen's parking lot, and he was talking about how hard it all was. He said, "I sit in a hotel room, and I just miss my best friend." His best friend=my mom. It was all I could do not to bawl, a similar struggle I face as I write that out. I'm perpetually single, and I sometimes think part of that is because I have yet to meet a man who will treat me the way my dad treats my mom. Those are enormous shoes to fill, and not just because he's 6ft7in. I fear that sounds creepy, me comparing dudes to my dad, but if you have a dad like mine, I guess it's inevitable.
6) One last little one. I remember one Saturday during lunch, my dad and I had an insult-off. We went on and on, trying to take each other down. It was awesome. I eventually won, but I think it's because he let me. Dad's hilarious (sometimes in a groaner sense, sure), and I've always loved that we can all just joke around and make ourselves laugh till we hurt. Dad's confident enough in himself that he's willing to take a few slams from his (truly loving and respectful) kids.
7) Okay, I lied about 6 being the last. One last thing. He didn't spank me nearly as much as I deserved. And I always had ample warning that punishment was imminent. And he never actually hurt me when he did it, despite the fact that his hands were bigger than my butt--at least for a few short years. That's a good dad for you.
Sunday, May 10, 2009
Memories of Mom
So, I got my mom a really nice, sincere Mother's Day card, which I totally meant. My mom is pretty much awesome, and that's just the way it is. But I thought it might be nice to think through some of more specific things about my mom in addition to the generic Hallmark sentiments. Here are a few things that make me smile when I think of them.
1) When we went to South Dakota on vacation when I was pretty little, we saw some buttes. Mom said, "Hey, aren't those the butts I read about?" Obviously, she didn't realize how important some e's really are. At the time, I didn't know what a butte was, but I knew my mom said butt, and that was enough to make me laugh. Dad teased her about it, and it became a family joke.
2) When I was little, she used to tease me by squeezing my thighs. That sounds really weird. But it was a tickling thing, and it made me laugh. She would sometimes give me warning so I would try to squirm away, but other times she'd surprise me and get me. As I write, it sounds so bizarre, but it was hilarious to me at the time, and truly a fun mom thing. Not weird.
3) She also called me poopsock, boogerbutt, and missybutt. I swear she loved me! :)
4) I used to cry a lot at school, and one time she made a deal with me. She bought a Barbie doll and told me I could have it if I went two weeks without crying. I didn't make it, but I was too honest to lie about it. My teacher told me to tell my mom, but to explain that she (the teacher) thought it was 100% understandable and I shouldn't be punished for it (this was my fave teacher EVER). So I went home and confessed. Mom expressed that she was disappointed, but she didn't get mad at me. I got the Barbie, though I think I did have to wait a couple of days. I just remember that as an instance of her being a good disciplinarian, but one with compassion.
5) I remember as a teenager, something happened that mad mom feel bad, and she cried. She's normally fairly stoic for the most part, and especially as a kid I rarely saw her cry. I remember seeing her cry there in her chair, and having that first dim realization that my mom was a person beyond the four of us. It took longer to fully realize that (and I still sometimes forget), but that was a hard thing to realize as early-teenage kid. I ended up crying just because she was crying.
6) Similarly to that one, I was 15 when my Grandpa Huisman died. We knew for a while that it was going to happen, so when the phone rang late one night, we knew what it was. Dad answered it and then Mom came to my room to tell me. I remember I started to bawl because A) Grandpa died and B) I had been snotty and mean to Dad and now I felt bad because now I saw that my dad wouldn't live forever either. Mom just hugged me and told me not to feel bad about that. Dad would be around a long time. Then, in the kitchen, Dad was writing a note to my brother who was working till way late to tell him what had happened. Dad got upset while writing and threw the pen down on the table and started to cry. And Mom and I sat down the hall on my bed and cried together. As an adult, I think maybe she should have been with Dad instead of me, but at the time, I needed her and I guess she knew that.
7) More generally, it's just a funny realization to have your mom go from the lady who bosses you around and makes you do dishes and vacuuming to the lady you want to talk to and go shopping with and hang out with just because she's your friend. I remember the teenage moments of frustration and anger, but those are so faded and distant and now mostly all that's left is the idea that my mom is a fun person I can hang out with and laugh with. And vent to when I need it. And I need it a lot.
8) One more. I remember sitting next to her in church and being cuddled up with her arm around me. I got to play with her rings and necklaces and eat pink mint candies. That was about the safest place on earth. I still miss that sometimes. But I suppose it would look dumb for a 32-year-old to curl up next to her smaller mom and play with her jewelry. Darn.
1) When we went to South Dakota on vacation when I was pretty little, we saw some buttes. Mom said, "Hey, aren't those the butts I read about?" Obviously, she didn't realize how important some e's really are. At the time, I didn't know what a butte was, but I knew my mom said butt, and that was enough to make me laugh. Dad teased her about it, and it became a family joke.
2) When I was little, she used to tease me by squeezing my thighs. That sounds really weird. But it was a tickling thing, and it made me laugh. She would sometimes give me warning so I would try to squirm away, but other times she'd surprise me and get me. As I write, it sounds so bizarre, but it was hilarious to me at the time, and truly a fun mom thing. Not weird.
3) She also called me poopsock, boogerbutt, and missybutt. I swear she loved me! :)
4) I used to cry a lot at school, and one time she made a deal with me. She bought a Barbie doll and told me I could have it if I went two weeks without crying. I didn't make it, but I was too honest to lie about it. My teacher told me to tell my mom, but to explain that she (the teacher) thought it was 100% understandable and I shouldn't be punished for it (this was my fave teacher EVER). So I went home and confessed. Mom expressed that she was disappointed, but she didn't get mad at me. I got the Barbie, though I think I did have to wait a couple of days. I just remember that as an instance of her being a good disciplinarian, but one with compassion.
5) I remember as a teenager, something happened that mad mom feel bad, and she cried. She's normally fairly stoic for the most part, and especially as a kid I rarely saw her cry. I remember seeing her cry there in her chair, and having that first dim realization that my mom was a person beyond the four of us. It took longer to fully realize that (and I still sometimes forget), but that was a hard thing to realize as early-teenage kid. I ended up crying just because she was crying.
6) Similarly to that one, I was 15 when my Grandpa Huisman died. We knew for a while that it was going to happen, so when the phone rang late one night, we knew what it was. Dad answered it and then Mom came to my room to tell me. I remember I started to bawl because A) Grandpa died and B) I had been snotty and mean to Dad and now I felt bad because now I saw that my dad wouldn't live forever either. Mom just hugged me and told me not to feel bad about that. Dad would be around a long time. Then, in the kitchen, Dad was writing a note to my brother who was working till way late to tell him what had happened. Dad got upset while writing and threw the pen down on the table and started to cry. And Mom and I sat down the hall on my bed and cried together. As an adult, I think maybe she should have been with Dad instead of me, but at the time, I needed her and I guess she knew that.
7) More generally, it's just a funny realization to have your mom go from the lady who bosses you around and makes you do dishes and vacuuming to the lady you want to talk to and go shopping with and hang out with just because she's your friend. I remember the teenage moments of frustration and anger, but those are so faded and distant and now mostly all that's left is the idea that my mom is a fun person I can hang out with and laugh with. And vent to when I need it. And I need it a lot.
8) One more. I remember sitting next to her in church and being cuddled up with her arm around me. I got to play with her rings and necklaces and eat pink mint candies. That was about the safest place on earth. I still miss that sometimes. But I suppose it would look dumb for a 32-year-old to curl up next to her smaller mom and play with her jewelry. Darn.
Thursday, May 7, 2009
On year one
This year was my first as a professor, and like a good lifelong learner, I've been trying to pay attention and get something out of it. Here's a list of good and bad discoveries, in no particular order.
1) I am not as horrible at my job as I fear I am. I learned this when I got my evals back for my large lecture class, and discovered that I got high marks from almost everyone in the course. This was only weeks after I had a breakdown in fear that I had irrevocably messed up my course and my reputation as a teacher. I had been so convinced that I stink that I was terrified to get my reviews. And then it turns out I did fine, and several of my students from that class were repeats this semester, and several others have asked me to be their adviser. So go figure.
2) I'm also not as good as I want to be. I've always been unorganized, but I let that get in the way of teaching a few times this semester and it made me feel bad and inept. We'll see what that means on my evals this semester, but I hope my honesty and enthusiasm make up for some of the absent-minded professorisms. Nonetheless, I gotta work on some serious skills in this area of my life. I'm a mess!
3) Despite my general self-loathing and continual apprehension about what students really think of me, I am relieved to find that I really love what I do. So now I just have to build my confidence to match that. It feels amazing to know that all those years of school were worth it for this job. Even when I'm feeling (as I'm feeling now) like I'll never get all the grading done.
4) I'm not a happy person even when I'm happy. I'm not sure what it will take for me to embrace the happiness that I know I deserve. I continually fight the slump, the dissatisfaction, the anger, and the overall unhappiness that seems to follow me around. The past few weeks, it has been nearly unbearable, and I am not sure why that is. I keep writing it off to being tired, but it's not like I haven't been tired before. I've learned that I need to get to the bottom of it if I don't want it to destroy my career, as well as, potentially, my overall life. I just don't yet know how to do that.
5) I've learned that Wisconsin is near Iowa in geography, but a far distance in many cultural senses. The constant presence of beer--in the most unexpected places--continues to surprise me. I've learned that I enjoy the stuff more than I thought I did, but I also learned that it's easy to pack on a few pounds with a simple glass of liquid. The occasional, single beer to be social can turn into a few extra pounds in no time. No wonder this is one of the most obese states in the U.S. And no wonder my pants are tight.
6) I've learned that people are nice. I am lucky to be in a department full of really, genuinely nice people. I have little in common with many of them, but I love spending time with them all the same. They are good, fun, caring people around here. In academia, that's not all that common (alas), so I am particularly grateful to all of them. And I hope they don't think I'm a raving lunatic, though I'm sure I sometimes seem that way.
7) I actually am a raving lunatic.
1) I am not as horrible at my job as I fear I am. I learned this when I got my evals back for my large lecture class, and discovered that I got high marks from almost everyone in the course. This was only weeks after I had a breakdown in fear that I had irrevocably messed up my course and my reputation as a teacher. I had been so convinced that I stink that I was terrified to get my reviews. And then it turns out I did fine, and several of my students from that class were repeats this semester, and several others have asked me to be their adviser. So go figure.
2) I'm also not as good as I want to be. I've always been unorganized, but I let that get in the way of teaching a few times this semester and it made me feel bad and inept. We'll see what that means on my evals this semester, but I hope my honesty and enthusiasm make up for some of the absent-minded professorisms. Nonetheless, I gotta work on some serious skills in this area of my life. I'm a mess!
3) Despite my general self-loathing and continual apprehension about what students really think of me, I am relieved to find that I really love what I do. So now I just have to build my confidence to match that. It feels amazing to know that all those years of school were worth it for this job. Even when I'm feeling (as I'm feeling now) like I'll never get all the grading done.
4) I'm not a happy person even when I'm happy. I'm not sure what it will take for me to embrace the happiness that I know I deserve. I continually fight the slump, the dissatisfaction, the anger, and the overall unhappiness that seems to follow me around. The past few weeks, it has been nearly unbearable, and I am not sure why that is. I keep writing it off to being tired, but it's not like I haven't been tired before. I've learned that I need to get to the bottom of it if I don't want it to destroy my career, as well as, potentially, my overall life. I just don't yet know how to do that.
5) I've learned that Wisconsin is near Iowa in geography, but a far distance in many cultural senses. The constant presence of beer--in the most unexpected places--continues to surprise me. I've learned that I enjoy the stuff more than I thought I did, but I also learned that it's easy to pack on a few pounds with a simple glass of liquid. The occasional, single beer to be social can turn into a few extra pounds in no time. No wonder this is one of the most obese states in the U.S. And no wonder my pants are tight.
6) I've learned that people are nice. I am lucky to be in a department full of really, genuinely nice people. I have little in common with many of them, but I love spending time with them all the same. They are good, fun, caring people around here. In academia, that's not all that common (alas), so I am particularly grateful to all of them. And I hope they don't think I'm a raving lunatic, though I'm sure I sometimes seem that way.
7) I actually am a raving lunatic.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
American Theater
I like TV. I like theater. I like musicals. So when the opportunity presented itself to see all three in one, you might understand why I said, "Yes, please." Or at least why I said, "Sure, why not?" It all started last fall, when I was new and friendless in my new town. Some colleagues invited me to attend a production of Gilligan's Island: The Musical, which was playing at another local university way off in May. I agreed for the reasons mentioned at the start of this paragraph, plus the added fact that I wasn't about to turn down a social opportunity, even if it was more than six months away.
Finally, the night came. I admit that I had low expectations. The TV show was utter crap, but I like it for its open embrace of crapness. I figured the musical would feature little references to the show, little in-jokes and stuff like that. Plus songs...who knew what the songs would be like, but I was game to try. Low expectations for me does not equate to unpleasantness.
When I got there, I discovered via the playbill that an alien featured in the plot. Oh, dear. I had been duped into going to Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull and had been shat upon by a plot involving crystalline aliens. So that was warning bell one. The group of us discussed our growing apprehension with this development. Were they really going to mess with the 'integrity' of the show in such a ridiculous way??
Yes.
So the second warning bell was the first song, where the characters meandered about the stage, each carrying a plywood section of the ship that was tossed about by the storm while they sang the theme song of the show. Finally, they were separated by the tides, and washed up on a plywood forested-island.
And then it went downhill from there. Honestly. That was the high point. The second warning bell was the high point.
The good news is that I laughed pretty much throughout the whole debacle. The bad news is that I laughed at it, not with it. I have low-brow tastes, but I'm dismayed that crap such as this passes for theater, and that its connection to a terrible TV show means we were suckered into going.
Though I should add, in our...oh, let's say in our defense...that our original draw-in to the show was the fact that Greg Brady (aka Barry Williams) was going to play the Professor, but he had to back out. The problem with this defense is that it still rests on our being lured in by crap TV. So we still come out pretty weak in this whole thing. But not quite as weak as the musical itself, so it evens out, I guess.
Finally, the night came. I admit that I had low expectations. The TV show was utter crap, but I like it for its open embrace of crapness. I figured the musical would feature little references to the show, little in-jokes and stuff like that. Plus songs...who knew what the songs would be like, but I was game to try. Low expectations for me does not equate to unpleasantness.
When I got there, I discovered via the playbill that an alien featured in the plot. Oh, dear. I had been duped into going to Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull and had been shat upon by a plot involving crystalline aliens. So that was warning bell one. The group of us discussed our growing apprehension with this development. Were they really going to mess with the 'integrity' of the show in such a ridiculous way??
Yes.
So the second warning bell was the first song, where the characters meandered about the stage, each carrying a plywood section of the ship that was tossed about by the storm while they sang the theme song of the show. Finally, they were separated by the tides, and washed up on a plywood forested-island.
And then it went downhill from there. Honestly. That was the high point. The second warning bell was the high point.
The good news is that I laughed pretty much throughout the whole debacle. The bad news is that I laughed at it, not with it. I have low-brow tastes, but I'm dismayed that crap such as this passes for theater, and that its connection to a terrible TV show means we were suckered into going.
Though I should add, in our...oh, let's say in our defense...that our original draw-in to the show was the fact that Greg Brady (aka Barry Williams) was going to play the Professor, but he had to back out. The problem with this defense is that it still rests on our being lured in by crap TV. So we still come out pretty weak in this whole thing. But not quite as weak as the musical itself, so it evens out, I guess.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Sometimes I get confused.
All right. Hugo Chavez is a bastard, to say the least. A serious, power-hungry bastard. Obama shook hands with him, okay. It seemed like one of those situations where you have to be polite and diplomatic even when you kind of wish you could run away. But whatever. He did it. But the outrage about it seems weird to me because there have been plenty of times when our leaders interacted with some pretty dastardly dudes. For example:
Bush's family has a long tie to the Saudi Royal family, the perpetrators of atrocious human rights violations, and who tolerate the United States only because we make them richer. If we stopped buying oil from them, they'd hate as bad as or worse than Chavez. And yet...Bush kissed the prince, held his hand, acted altogether chummy. Where's the outrage?
And then there's:
Vladimir Putin, the man whose soul Bush saw, has been linked to extreme totalitarian-style political tactics (including assassination of outspoken opponents).
And don't forget:
Reagan schmoozed with a damned dirty Communist...sure, it was for diplomacy, but when Obama suggests talking to Communist Castro, he's a maniac hell-bent on destroying America. The Gipper was an effing hero for doing it. What gives?
Lastly, let's not forget:
He's not a president, to be sure, but Donald Rumsfeld was sent by Reagan to provide military support to known human-rights violator and genocidal asswipe Saddam Hussein in his fight against Iran. Shook his hand and smiled at him, not terribly unlike Obama's interaction with Chavez. Again, it's not like we didn't know who Hussein was or what he was doing to his own people.
So. My point. I have a point and it is this: Hugo Chavez is an arrogant, evil blowhard with aspirations to totalitarianism, and the U.S. should not support him. However, I really believe it's a pot-and-kettle argument to say that Obama is making a calamitous error in shaking the douchebag's hand. Our leaders have done similar things, and often with (it seems) far more nefarious intentions. So seriously. WTF?
Bush's family has a long tie to the Saudi Royal family, the perpetrators of atrocious human rights violations, and who tolerate the United States only because we make them richer. If we stopped buying oil from them, they'd hate as bad as or worse than Chavez. And yet...Bush kissed the prince, held his hand, acted altogether chummy. Where's the outrage?And then there's:
Vladimir Putin, the man whose soul Bush saw, has been linked to extreme totalitarian-style political tactics (including assassination of outspoken opponents).And don't forget:
Reagan schmoozed with a damned dirty Communist...sure, it was for diplomacy, but when Obama suggests talking to Communist Castro, he's a maniac hell-bent on destroying America. The Gipper was an effing hero for doing it. What gives?Lastly, let's not forget:
He's not a president, to be sure, but Donald Rumsfeld was sent by Reagan to provide military support to known human-rights violator and genocidal asswipe Saddam Hussein in his fight against Iran. Shook his hand and smiled at him, not terribly unlike Obama's interaction with Chavez. Again, it's not like we didn't know who Hussein was or what he was doing to his own people.So. My point. I have a point and it is this: Hugo Chavez is an arrogant, evil blowhard with aspirations to totalitarianism, and the U.S. should not support him. However, I really believe it's a pot-and-kettle argument to say that Obama is making a calamitous error in shaking the douchebag's hand. Our leaders have done similar things, and often with (it seems) far more nefarious intentions. So seriously. WTF?
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Delayed Reaction
This weekend, my family, and some of my aunt's family, gathered at my grandparents' house. In years past, this would have been a typical Easter activity. We're a close group, and we often got together for the major holidays. This year, however, was not like the old times. Instead of celebrating together, we were looking through my grandparents' belongings, taking what we want before we sell the remaining items and the house.
Since Grandpa passed away in December and Grandma moved into a nursing home, there's no reason to keep the house, and that includes 80+ years of accumulated stuff in the lives of Bill and Cleo. My mom and her sisters already took what they wanted, and now it is my cousins' and my turn. So Saturday afternoon, I found some nice mementos from their house, including an accordion, some china, some games, and other odds and ends.
At the time, it was a little sad, but I kind of just saw it as the thing we were doing. I've known it was coming for several weeks, so Saturday was just the day. We boxed up everything, wrapping the fragile stuff, and loaded it up in the car. Done.
And now I'm back in La Crosse, looking through what I took and thinking of what I'll do with it and where I'll put it all. And I'm bawling my eyes out. It's now hitting me that I took pieces of my grandparents' lives from the place where they lived with them, and left other pieces behind forever. Some of the items that made their house their home are now in my home because Grandpa and Grandma aren't home to enjoy them anymore.
Life is obviously not permanent. I understand the cycle, and I've accepted the fact that my grandparents won't live forever. But before now, the concept of impermanence and separation through death was all too easily seen in sepia tones of long-gone ancestors and the experiences of the older generations. Even after Grandpa died, it seemed distant and unreal. Heck, even on Saturday, it didn't seem entirely real.
But now, with my grandparents' things sitting in boxes and on my table, I am hit with the fullness of what's happened. In full, vivid color I am living with the reality that my family has irrevocably changed. The home I grew up visiting will soon just be another person's house. And the fragmented remains of Bill and Cleo's lives will sit all across the midwest in the lives of their impermanent descendants.
Since Grandpa passed away in December and Grandma moved into a nursing home, there's no reason to keep the house, and that includes 80+ years of accumulated stuff in the lives of Bill and Cleo. My mom and her sisters already took what they wanted, and now it is my cousins' and my turn. So Saturday afternoon, I found some nice mementos from their house, including an accordion, some china, some games, and other odds and ends.
At the time, it was a little sad, but I kind of just saw it as the thing we were doing. I've known it was coming for several weeks, so Saturday was just the day. We boxed up everything, wrapping the fragile stuff, and loaded it up in the car. Done.
And now I'm back in La Crosse, looking through what I took and thinking of what I'll do with it and where I'll put it all. And I'm bawling my eyes out. It's now hitting me that I took pieces of my grandparents' lives from the place where they lived with them, and left other pieces behind forever. Some of the items that made their house their home are now in my home because Grandpa and Grandma aren't home to enjoy them anymore.
Life is obviously not permanent. I understand the cycle, and I've accepted the fact that my grandparents won't live forever. But before now, the concept of impermanence and separation through death was all too easily seen in sepia tones of long-gone ancestors and the experiences of the older generations. Even after Grandpa died, it seemed distant and unreal. Heck, even on Saturday, it didn't seem entirely real.
But now, with my grandparents' things sitting in boxes and on my table, I am hit with the fullness of what's happened. In full, vivid color I am living with the reality that my family has irrevocably changed. The home I grew up visiting will soon just be another person's house. And the fragmented remains of Bill and Cleo's lives will sit all across the midwest in the lives of their impermanent descendants.
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