Tag Archives: trying to do the right thing

How to Help Hurricane Sandy Victims beyond Red Cross

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It’s always better late than never, right?

Confession: I did not realize how massive the impact Hurricane Sandy had on the lives of people in New York City and New Jersey until I came across the pictures.

 

 

In my ignorance, I had thought in the very beginning, “How bad could it be? This is New York City we’re talking about.” Somehow I was enough of an idiot to assume that NATURE would have nothing to claim in NYC, the pulsing URBAN center of the universe. I know it does not make any sense to you. It shouldn’t since these were assumptions made by an idiot, moi. 

I was waiting for reports on the dire situations to stop, waiting for the “All Clear!” news item showing people patting each other on the back for “disasters divertes”, for “a good job done”.  Certainly this is New York City and New Jersey we’re talking about. These people know people and have people. Things should go back to normal soon.

But it didn’t.

On the contrary, more and more images and stories showing the devastations surfaced. Reports on how “far flung” [relatively] communities were still waiting for adequate assistance finally caught our attention: Reuters just published a news article on the dire situation now in Far Rockaway. For starters, many areas are still without power, and that means no heat as temperature drops to the 30s. Here is a video from Democracy Now.

 

 

 

Thanks to a good friend of mine who has been posting the latest updates and the most relevant information on Facebook throughout, I was able to quickly bring myself up to speed on what’s happening and how to help, regardless of how little I could do in the face of such devastation. I thought I’d share the information I’ve collected, thanks to the lovely Sue:

Red Cross is a great org, but at times like this, some grassroots orgs are better at reaching smaller, more remote areas that are not getting enough attention. I am not accusing FEMA or Red Cross: the needs are simply too overwhelming now as the communities in need are so widespread. If you would like to donate and help, consider some of the other orgs, such as AmeriCare and World Cares Center. (The links take you directly to the organizations’ donation pages – If I could, I prefer to donate directly rather than going through 3rd party sites. Just my personal preference…)

World Cares have volunteers on the ground in places such as Far Rockaway that are still waiting for the arrival of help in proportion to the needs. Follow World Cares on Twitter for live updates and also on how you could volunteer on the ground.

For more ideas on how to make an impact, read 8 Ways to Help Hurricane Sandy Victims Beyond Donating to the Red Cross for more organizations that are on the ground delivering tangential helps right now.

The Occupy movement reemerged as Occupy Sandy, a community-based relief organization mastering social media and crowd-sourcing to coordinate and distribute assistance on the ground. Check out their Facebook page full of updates from folks who are offering to help, such as an offer of industrial pumps to pump out the water free of charge. It really is amazing. They have also cleverly set up a “wedding registry” on Amazon for blankets, flashlights, etc. to be delivered directly to Church of St Luke and St Matthew.

 

How to Suck at Tipping

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I know that I suffer from a severe case of liberal guilt and that’s why I don’t think I can truly relax in places where there is a clear demarcation, often times physically, between the privileged and the underprivileged. You can accuse me of being a hypocrite if you want. I would not know how to defend myself. So there. 

I am in Shanghai now on a business trip. I never feel truly comfortable when I am in China because people mistake me easily for a local (I can fake a Beijing accent when speaking Chinese vs. my natural, Taiwanese-accented Mandarin Chinese) and yet they could tell that there is something off about me. They’d ask me where I am from. When I explained that I grew up in Taiwan and now live in the US, inevitably there would be lots of questions about the comparisons between Taiwan and China, the US and China, and the topic always leads to, uncomfortably at least for me, how I have a much better life.

“You went to good school.” They’d conclude with regret or longing or something in their voice, if the person I’m speaking to is from outside of the upper-middle class.

The hotel I am staying in provides massage services until 2 am. It sounded like an awesome idea: travelers with jet lags will LOVE to be able to get a massage when they have trouble going to bed anyway. So I called the extension and booked a 60-minute acupressure massage session in my room.

“So where are you from?” My masseuse asked as she tried to figure out in which direction I should lie on the bed. I was still confused because she had come in with nothing. Where’s the oil? The lotion? The blanket? The towel?

“Taiwan? Wow. It must be a lot nicer over there.” I tried to deflect the conversation by suggesting that people love coming to China nowadays because of the opportunities.

“More opportunities?”

“Yeah, you know. More land. More people…” My voice trailed off as I backed myself into a corner. Sure enough, she told me that she’s not from here. “We came from [another province].” Instinctively, I understood that she’d meant “we, the masseuses working at this hotel”. She was here, like many other migrant workers from rural China, by herself leaving behind two children and aging parents.

She told me about the farms back home, how before she got married at 23 she was already considered to be an old spinster, how massages were unheard of because god forbid if the neighbors got wind that either you got a massage from a man or you gave a man a massage.

She said that she wished she could visit Taiwan some day. I suggested jokingly that perhaps she should visit other places before Taiwan if she ever has a chance. “But when will I have a chance to visit another country? It costs so much!” I simply forgot how much it costs to travel, to fly on an airplane overseas. My plane tickets to Shanghai cost almost $2000 USD, which translates roughly into 4 months of her wages if she works every single day.

Finally came the question I dreaded the most, “How much are you paid over in the US?” (Yes, people do ask you this question sometimes.)

I gave a lame response of how salaries may be higher in the US but our costs of living are higher and also we have to pay more taxes. Lots more. She didn’t seem to mind my not answering her question.

“I am paid 100 yuan a day. I did so many massages today but I will still get 100 yuan.”

I was surprised. And embarrassed somehow. In my panic, I also wished that I had pretended to speak no Chinese. Then I felt extremely guilty and ashamed of myself.

“You know, you are smart [why’s she so sure of that?] and you went to good school [ibid]. Me? I don’t know how to do anything. No skills. No brains.” She said, matter-of- factly.

Fortunately for me our conversation veered off when she got to my derrière. She said jokingly, “You look so thin but oh your [backside] is so big!” I was not offended the least because I was so relieved.

“Hey. That’s what they call Son-bearing hip, ok? All the grandmothers loved me when I was young. They know I’d be popping out boy babies.”

“Oh, my butt is huge too.”

We bonded over son-bearing hips. And thick thighs. Yes, once I turned to lie on my back, she was surprised by how “there is no meat on your face”. She proceeded to wonder out loud how it’s possible that I could have such thick thighs since my arms and my mid region looked great. I wanted to hug her for the compliments. These were sincere and not backhanded at all.

By the end of the session, I had determined to give her a great tip even though tipping is a complex matter in China. Yes, hotel workers cater to Westerners may have come to expect tips, most Chinese are not accustomed to it. Some people actually resent the thought that “foreigners are training workers in China to expect tips from all”.

“I don’t have the exact change. How about you bring these to them and keep the change. Will they let you keep the change?”

She looked utterly confused. “Don’t you have exact change?”

“No. I am sorry. That’s what I meant though: go downstairs with the money, and keep the change. If I give you these bills, will the change go to you at all?”

“Oh no. No. They’ll never give me the change.”

“Ok, here’s what you are going to do: Give them the bills. Tell them I asked you to bring the change up to me. But then just go home.”

Now she looked scared. “They may catch me leaving with the money… I will bring the money to your room.”

As she hurried out, it dawned on me that this might not have been the best idea because what was I trying to prove? What was I trying to do to this poor woman so I could feel better about myself?

A knock on my door.

“Hi. Good evening. Here’s your change back.” Standing there, holding out the money was not my masseuse but a better-dressed, more cosmopolitan-looking young woman.

Somehow I was not surprised. Of course they wouldn’t allow her to bring the change back to me. I was saddened, imagining my masseuse’s disappointment caused by me.

Why did I try to meddle in somebody’s life?

Another knock on my door.

“Oh, I was so scared! Did she bring you your change?” Now she’s embarrassed. “I just want to make sure that you’ve got your change. They told me that I could leave. So I made a turn when nobody’s looking and came upstairs.”

Giving someone a tip should not made either the giver or the receiver feel as if they’re having an illicit affair. I was really upset at “them” by this time. The irony did not escape me of course.

Her eyes widened as I pushed the change into her hand. “What are you doing? You are nuts.”

“Well, you know. I used a coupon and I think you the person who did all the work should enjoy this reward and not me.”

 

It’s now past 3 am here. I am not sleepy at all. I don’t know what I am trying to say by recounting my encounter with my impotent conscience.

Maybe I am hoping that one of you will call me out on it as an atonement.

 

What One Could Learn from the Game of Life

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Bad mommy confession: I hate playing board games. I still have horrible memories of spending hours playing Monopoly that would not end, and of course I went into bankruptcy half way through the game followed by a streak of bad lucks. Five hours later I was exhausted and bitter. That’s why even though my 9-year-old has been begging me to play the game of Life for weeks, I did not grant him this one tiny wish until this afternoon.

And, as you could guess, I am glad I did and we had great fun playing it.

Things I learned from playing the Game of Life:

1. You start out with a bank loan of $100,000 if you choose the “College Career” path.

2. Teacher’s salary sucks because it starts out at 40K and maxes out at 70K.

3. See above. College Career does not necessary pay, unless you are a doctor or a lawyer. But since you have no idea which career path you would land in — a card is randomly drawn, you are better off going on the “regular career” path.

4. Being an entertainer has great potential of making a steady, 6-figure, income. I am sold!

5. Spending a lot of money buying a flashy house does not get you anything in the end. You get to sell your house back to the bank for the exact same amount of money that you paid for.

6. See above. A double-wide RV costs 300K. Therefore I am not sure why I traded my starter home, a log cabin, up for a RV. “It’s just for bragging rights, mom. You are so dumb.”

7. My kids are risky gamblers: They are not allowed into any casinos. I am submitting their names and pictures and retina scan data to the Secret Casino Bouncer Club (there is one right?) so they would be barred from entering any casino.

8. I set out playing the game determined to NOT get married. But I was dealt the card so I had to bite the bullet (or lie in it or something). With lots of whining.

“Mom, get a pink one! Be a rebel!” My oldest encouraged me.

“Oh, that would be weird.” My youngest said, unsurely.

“Well, that’s a good idea. We should represent all different types of families!” I put another pink pin in my car. So in this game I was in a same-sex marriage, and my wife and I ended up having three children (with two of them being twins).

I did have to apologize (to nobody in particular) when I mumbled, “I wish my wife is good at raising kids because I ain’t doing all that.”

See? Gender roles. I can’t get pass the stereotypical thinking even in my pretend Life. Ugh.

 

How to show your kid what the 80s is about. The hard way.

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By taking them to the exhibit dedicated to the 1980s at Museum of Contemporary Art in Chicago, of course!

 

I am kidding on the square, seeing how this is a hard glance back at the 1980s with a critical eye: feminism, gender politics, race politics, AIDES, political upheavals in the Latin America, Disappeared, Reaganism, NEA, Robert Mapplethorpe. How do you explain to a young child what happened in the 1980s when all they heard nowadays was how in the 1980s everybody was happy because the economy was great?

It’s kind of scary how little the kids know about what really happened in the 1980s.

It’s also kind of difficult, as a parent, to gauge “how young is old enough” and “how much is too much”. I don’t like to shelter my children but I also want to make sure what I share with them is “age appropriate”…

 

Race politics. Passing. Stereotypes. Racism. Gender politics.

I believe I screamed, just a little, when I saw Adrian Piper’s My Calling (Cards) on display since I’ve used this often as an example of how one performance artist has chosen to deal with racism in mundane, daily life. MCA has them on display, in multiple copies, free for the taking.

 

Coming off from my high, I was immediately put on “high alert” when next we walked into the wing dedicated to “Gender Trouble”. Because of the in-your-face shock value of the protest art, I felt I had to prepare Mr. Monk, who’s in 3rd grade, even though he’s a mature 3rd grader, for the images on display. Here’s what I came up with in a panic:

The rise of feminism means that women artists started questioning the social orders in the society: why are men given more power and authority than women? What makes a man a man? What makes a woman a woman? And that’s why they show the anatomy of human being to confront the man-made meanings and differences between men and women, and that’s why you are going to see a lot of penises.

He dutifully nodded, and laughed to mask his discomfort. Nobody wants to hear their mother utter the word “penis” in public even at a whisper.

As I went through the internal struggle of whether to impose “censorship” on the fly, I instinctively shielded him from an open, video screen room [Later, The Husband told me that the room came with a warning sign outside so I guess my instinct was correct]. Then across the room were these:

 

Robert Mapplethorpe.  The artist that embodied two main Reaganism in the 1980s: the government’s willful negligence towards the Aides epidemic and  its fight to censor what it deemed as “obscene” art. Without thinking, I had strategically positioned myself between these photos and Mr. Monk’s sight line. To this moment, I am still questioning myself whether I had done the right thing: If I disagree with the conservative’s accusation, why did I shield Mr. Monk’s gaze from these pictures, esp. the leather-encased penis? [In my defense, I was not worried about my 13-year old; he roamed through the exhibit without a chaperon]

 

Lots of questions were asked: Why was Reagan’s portrait there? Was it for sarcastic reasons? Why? What did he do? Why were people upset?

What is AIDS?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I think Mr. Monk understands this picture or at least walked away with his own interpretation.

Photo Courtesy of The Husband

[After all, he got it when Jack Donaghy said, about Kenneth the Intern, “He’s a white male with hair, Lemon. The sky’s the limit.”]

 

Even though this is a child who is extremely mature for his age, sensitive and observant of the world around him, has watched possibly all episodes of The Simpsons, and Weekend Update on SNL with me, I left the museum still questioning myself: Was is it too much? What is too much? Have I shown my child “age appropriate” material?

 

Photo Courtesy of The Husband

This is such a difficult picture to look at straight on. But it is not difficult to grasp the messages. Should I have shielded him from the ugliness of the world?

 

 

So… 1980s. I almost forgot. It’s not just about the cheesy music, leg warmers and big hairs.

 

 

More pictures from our visit to MCA that day here:

How to Care For Introverts

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I first discovered this instruction and posted it in 2009. I just recently found the original article where this set of “rules” came from:

The American dream is to be extraverted. We want our children to be “people who need people.” We want them to have lots of friends, to like parties, to prefer to play outside with their buddies rather than retire with a good book, to make friends easily, to greet new experiences enthusiastically, to be good risk-takers, to be open about their feelings, to be trusting. We regard anyone who doesn’t fit this pattern with some concern. We call them “withdrawn,” “aloof,” “shy,” “secretive,” and “loners.” These pejorative terms show the extent to which we misunderstand introverts…

Introverts need to learn about the positive benefits of their personality type. They need to be taught that reflection is a good quality…

The time has come to respect the introverts in our families and classrooms, and the hidden introvert in ourselves.

Source (1999)

 

This article was published in 1999. More than a decade later, I do not think the world has changed for the introverts. Perhaps we all need such a reminder once in a while. Because it is very easy to forget.

 

Mass at 5

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Warning: According to my Blog Advisory System, this post is rated RED for The Touchiest of All Touchy Subjects. I wrote it last week but did not have the heart to publish it because I was worried about losing readership. In the end though, I have got to do what feels right by me and I apologize if when you get to the end you are like, WTF? I did not sign up for this!

My 8-year-old, Mr. Monk, cried during his Religious Class last Saturday because he wanted to attend Mass and his parents, we, have not managed to take him on a regular basis.

Mr. Monk, unlike his elder brother, is prone to taking things 100% and to the extreme. He takes everything that people say in, personally and seriously. He obeys authority figures (his parents not included, alas) with a fervor: whatever they say, you have to follow. He had already come home crying before that because the priest had told them, “Your parents promised to bring you up Catholic and they have to bring you to Mass every week.” Because that’s not how we operate in this household, he has been really troubled. The other shoe has dropped. This twice-a-year-Catholic thing is not going to work for him.

He really wants to BELIEVE, and there is no compromise. He seems to have a hard time understanding “grey areas”. To be 100% honest with myself, I’m worried. Now that Mr. Monk is convinced this is the right way (because OTHERWISE why would we, his parents, send him to RE every Saturday morning?!), he perceives my being a non-Christian as an anomaly. He brings up my being non-Christian more often than I am comfortable with since ideally, I would have liked it to be a non-issue, the way it has been with his older brother.

I do not agree with everything the Catholic Church has to teach and I am not sure about the whole “Immaculate Conception” thing (and I will simply leave it here). Out of respect for my spouse, I do not discuss Jesus with our kids. The old testament part, however, I have no problem discussing it with them, myself being an English Lit major in my youth and all.

I wish, with all due respect to my marriage, that I had given more thoughts to this whole Interfaith thing before I said yes. I did not expect it to be so complicated since I am agnostic; I had expected it to be conflict-free since, heck, I believe in every god, deity, fairy, spirit there is. Growing up in a Chinese society, I was immersed subtly and not so subtly in Buddhist and Taoist teachings and beliefs. The concept of Karma has been driven into my subconsciousness since day one. More importantly, there is no judgement passed. No concept of Sin. No concept of Grace. No threats of going to hell for non-believers.

Back to the story about last Saturday… After RE, the Catechist, Mrs. G (G being curiously a common German Jewish surname) told me, “I could tell that he was trying to be brave, but he was crying and said that he didn’t go to Mass… but he wanted to…” Because in my previous email communications with Mrs. G I had told her how much I appreciate her openness and how she made me want to bring the kids to Mass even if I have to do it by myself (since my husband travels a lot), she gently pointed out, “This is great and just gives you more incentive to bring him to Mass!”

We ended up talking about Interfaith families and how I didn’t realize it’s going to be more complicated than I have expected. I stopped short of telling her I am uncomfortable with the Church because of the whole anti-gay, anti-abortion stance. I simply asked her, “The church. This church. The sermons are not too ‘radical’ right?” She got what I was trying to ask, and she wrote me an email:

I’m obsessing about our conversation (I do that sometimes!)… God makes everyone perfect in His eyes.  I can only tell you that the Catholic Church does not teach that they are damned or bad.  They see all people as sinners in need of God’s forgivenss, so really we are all in the same boat… Mass is not a time where anyone delves into the “tough” topics like, homosexuality, divorce, politics, etc. It is a time for worship and praise of God. It is a time to come together as a group of people from all different backgrounds, circumstances, and “sin” status (Ha!). There will be no finger pointing. No one will look at you and say, “Clearly, she doesn’t know what the heck’s going on.” You don’t have to pretend to, so don’t worry! Your boys will help out. They’re wonderful people because YOU care so much about their development. Religious or not, you are bringing them up in the right moral way. You are sharing and showing the love that God has for each and every one of us… yes, you too! God loves agnostics too!

I fell in love with Mrs. G right then and there, despite her being a devout Catholic, and I decided to take the kids to the Mass at 5 o’clock that day.

THIS I could deal with, I thought to myself.

If all Christians were open to a calm discussion with open stance the way Mrs. G is, I could stop worrying about this whole Interfaith thing. Maybe they are. Maybe it is not as complicated as I thought. Maybe it is just me.

Unfortunately for me and for my sanity… at the end of the Liturgy, the second Intercession offered by the Deacon was “Let’s pray that the anti-abortion law will be upheld, they are fighting for it in D.C. right now, that we will continue to uphold the sanctity of life.”

I was completely caught off guard and could not believe my ears. Did he really say the “A” word when there were so many children present? I am not the sheltering kind of parents but I certainly do not wish to have to explain to my young children what abortion is. I was also utterly confused because of the “anti-abortion law” that he mentioned. As far as I know, Roe vs. Wade still stands. Did I miss something? Was I caught in some twilight zone?

When I went home, I realized I was an idiot because that day, January 22, marked the 38th anniversary of the Supreme Court’s Roe vs. Wade decision, and two days before that John Boehner introduced the “No Taxpayer Funding for Abortion Act” that would codify the Hyde Amendment by permanently prohibiting taxpayer funding of abortion across all federal programs.

And yes, I believe, this is the touchiest of all touchy subjects that will convince many Christians to vote against Democrats no matter who is running for Prez on the GOP ticket in 2012. This country’s future is going to be fought over the right to our wombs. Imagine that.

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I am so friggin' confused myself!

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I made this Venn Diagram for a post more than a year ago and, I have to admit, I am still as confused as ever. Back to Square One. Do not pass go. Do not collect $200.

Reality bites. No. Reality kicked my ass.

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There is no other way around it: I am a hypocrite.

Isn’t it an ironic coincidence that after my holier-than-thou tirade against bullying and my immagonnakickyourpunkass battle cry, my 12-year-old son told me tonight that he has been called all sorts of names at school?

Names such as gay, nerd, retard. Hurled at him, in passing, on a daily basis.

And the worst perpetrator is the 13 year old son from a family we know (whose youngest child does the same extracurricular activity as my son and therefore we see and hang out with them very often).

As soon as I heard this, all the blood rushed to my head: I could see the Samurai sword in my bedroom and I could see, in my mind’s eye, me wearing a bandanna that says VENGEANCE, going over there right now to kick that little shithead’s ass. The visualization was so vivid my fingers curled around the imaginary sword in my hand and I felt my legs twitch as I kicked the door down.

Of course I did no such thing.

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Not able to coax more details out of my son, I did the only thing I could do: I went to his Facebook account and changed the setting so the little fuckhead and his mother could not see my son’s wall posts any more since, as you probably guessed, unfriend the little fucking curd is probably going to addle him more.

Finally after I put the little one to bed, I had some quiet time with my 7th grader before he went to bed.  I pretended to be calm (not very successfully since I mentioned samurai sword and kick ass and something about moving to Taiwan) and asked him more about what really goes on at school.

Son: Mom. You are over-reacting again! I am not going to tell you anything any more!

Me: Ok ok. I promise I won’t do anything crazy. I just need to get it out inside the house now so I can remain calm about this. I just want to know that you are ok.

Son: You are so lucky that I talk to you! Most kids don’t tell their parents these things…

Me: OK. I promise I will not do anything without asking you first. I will not even tell Miss _________ about [FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT]. I just want to know more and make sure that you are doing ok…

Son: I probably exaggerated a bit. I am not bullied, I guess. People just call me names… like gay, retard, nerd. [Fucking piece of shit] calls me gay all the time.

Me: (Taking a deep breath) Does it bother you?

Son: Nah… Well, it kind of bothers me because I don’t like it when people use those words. When my friends say ‘gay’ or ‘retard’ I tell them to not swear and they say, “What? I am not swearing! I just say retard!” Ugh.

Me: (Taking a really deep breath) Do they single you out? Or do they do it to the other kids?

Son: It’s what the cool kids do. In order to look cool, you have to casually swear all the time, call people gay and retard all the time, and talk about sex non-stop.

Me: (Thinking to myself WHAT THE FUCKING FUCK?! Taking a really really deep breath, and slowly) Ok. So… these kids. They call you names if you cross path. But if you stay away from them, do they seek you out to pick on you? (Wistfully) They don’t bother you right? Right?

Son: Not really… I just feel that they do it to me more. They call me nerd all the time.

Me: Does this make you not want to go to school? Are there other “non-cool” kids that you can hang out with?

Son: (Exasperated) Mom! I have a lot of friends at school! And they think I am cool. But even they call me a nerd. Well, because I am a nerd.

Me: (Exasperated. Hey, I am not Perfect & Wise Mom!) Why do you have to label yourself like this? [Yes, then I launched into a tirade against anti-intellectualism in this country and the stupidity of all this. ALL THIS! Probably did not help. I did say I am not Perfect & Wise Mom…]”

Son: It is kind of annoying that people think I am a nerd. I know Kung Fu very well and I can do a back flip, and I am probably stronger than a lot of them.

Me: Honey, I am not saying this because I am your mother, but I really really think that people are just jealous. I want to let you know that if somebody touches you, you have my permission to, wait, I’d better check with dad before I give you the permission…

Son: We are told this rule at school: If you are punched, cover your face. You are allowed to shove the person back but you are not allowed to make a fist and punch back. [Chuckles] I can probably shove the person back all the way to the locker.

Me: I just want you to know that we will not be mad at you for defending yourself. I also want to let you know that, although your friends seem to know better than to use ‘gay’ or ‘fag’ in front of grownups, if I hear them using these words, I will call them out on it.

Son: Just make sure you don’t do it to someone who can beat me up! Can I go to bed now?

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I am not sure what I should/could do. I am still in shock while at the same time feeling embarrassed by my naiveté for being shocked at all.

I did not grow up here. I did not experience anything like this: Not name calling. Not having words unapproved by adults hurled at you. To this day I cannot curse in Chinese; that’s how effective cultural and social conditioning combined with physical punishment, or simply the threat of it, is in disciplining children. And behold: Surprise surprise! All the news about bullying did not prepare me for when it actually happened to my own child. Obviously I had no idea what the fuck I was talking about when I was running my mouth. Please accept my sincere apology.

In all honesty, what my son is living with now is mild compared to some of the horror stories we have heard. But it still hurts. It hurts so much. My son is a part of me. When he is hurting, my heart hurts too. I can actually feel the pain inside my chest. It is already rousing all the primal maternal instincts I have. “You mess with my family? You mess with me.” And I’ve already had to calm myself the fuck down.

I cannot imagine having to deal with full-blown bullying as a parent. I cannot imagine having to deal with it as a child.

Deep down, I am wondering whether name calling truly is a lot more sinister: The school district does have a Zero Tolerance policy but only if there is physical contact. (And I am not going to spell out what is going through my mind right now. It suffices to say, IF they touch my son, it is open season). For words, mere words, there is nothing you can do about it, realistically. What’s the school going to do? There is no proof. And even if there is, what kind of punishment is the school going to dole out? Telling them to not do it again? “Be nice!” Slap the kids’ hands?

Hardy har har. Big fucking deal.

HOW FUCKING STUPID IS THIS?!

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I suck. I seriously do. Full of hot air. Nothing more. It’s been only one night, and I am ready to strike a bargain with the devil to make all this magically go away.

Why didn’t anybody tell me how awful it is going to be? Perhaps someone should have included this in the book “What to Expect When You Have Children”: Prepared to feel murderous rage against other teens but of course you cannot act on it and to feel the primordial urge to protect your young no matter what but of course you cannot do so when they are in school.

If I had known bringing up children in the United States of America means watching them being called names and not being able to do a fucking damned thing about it, I would not have married an American.

If I had known bringing up children means you have to sit and watch their innocence being stripped away bit by bit at the school yard where they are supposed to be fucking safe and protected, I would have hesitated.

I am most likely blowing everything up out of proportion. But this is how I feel right now.

Opening up a can of whupass

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I am fuming. Ok, what’s new, right? But this time it is something personal. It may be trivial but it has consumed me ever since I had the following exchange with my son this past Friday. After a whole weekend of thinking it over and calming down, my anger and indignation has been only stewing and seething… Oh my dear friends, the Mama Bear inside me has reared her ugly head. Hold me down please before I get ourselves run out of town with pitchforks and torches…

In a casual conversation last Friday, my 7th grader brought up that he was reprimanded by the lady of the house at the bottom of our street to “Get off of my driveway!” He in passing mentioned something else the woman said to him which got my attention. I did not think that I heard it correctly or that he had remembered accurately so before he went to bed, I interrogated him. Hit them when they are groggy and sleepy.

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Me: Can you tell me what happened at Mrs. S’ house today?

Son: Me and N (another 7th grader from the same block) were racing and he was on his motorbike and I was on my scooter. He said that he won, and I said that I won. And then he said the F word. [F _ g] Then E [Mrs. S’ daughter who is also a 7th grader] came out and she’s like, “Hi Guys.” Then she said, “Don’t say that. My mom is here.” We kept talking and then Mrs. S came out and said,

“Hey, get off of my driveway. I don’t want you here, especially you, [First Name of my son] [Last name]. One of these days we’re going to look in the newspaper and see that you are in jail.”

Me [taking a deep breath]: And you are very sure you are not the one that said the F word?

Son [looking me in the eyes]: I am sure.

Me [taking another deep breath]: And do you think she said that because she thought you were the one who said the F word?

Son: I have no idea. At first I thought she was sarcastic. She said, “One of these days you are going to get into big trouble, mister!” But I don’t know. She did the sarcastic thing wrong because she was not smiling. I didn’t say anything bad though.

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I really thought long and hard about how this could have happened and what to do about it. I of course tweeted about this already and several of you have offered to put a foot (or two feet) in her ass, beat her with a shovel and a riding crop. (Thank you m’ladies for getting my back!)

It’s possible that she was upset because she heard some kid using the F word and she totally went berserk? If she is such a strong proponent for LGBT rights that she has such a strong reaction from hearing this word spoken right outside her house, perhaps I should give her the benefit of a doubt?  I tried to put myself in her shoes but still I can’t see myself saying anything like that to anybody’s child. I would have admonished the kids, told them to not use such hurtful languages and possibly threatened to have a talk with their parents.

What do you think?

And I’ll own up, yes, I want to open up a can of whupass on this woman who will not know that I am opening up a can of woopass on her right here.

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cartoon from nataliedee.com

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Hey, it’s making me feel better already so it works, and that’s all that matters, right? Sigh. Parenting sucks. Parenting sucks ass when you are forced to see other parents as adversaries.

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p.s. Although children do lie to save their own behind and my son is definitely not a saint, he knows to not use the F word or even the word “gay” in the “wrong” way. I monitor all his email communications, IM and Facebook, and although he’s constantly surrounded by kids using the word “gay”, he has never used it even when other kids use the word to diminish him and his possessions. It is possible that he does after all take my “death by wrath” threat to heart. As for the other kid, N? Oh he knew he was in trouble. Or he thought he would have been in trouble since he told my son before he ran home, “Ok, I said ‘Fatty’, ok? That’s all I said!”

Be cool like me. Wear Threadless.

27 Replies

Today, I am sharing with you the secret to my coolness.

You know those older people who love to wear edgy t-shirts to prove to themselves that they are still hip, young at heart, and they can still get jiggy with it? (Irony intended)

Me! Me! Me!

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I have amassed a small collection of Threadless t-shirts for the above purpose. And today, my dear Soren Lorensen, I think, you are ready to be indoctrinated into The Cult of Threadless Ts.

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PeliCAN!

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Threadless will donate all proceeds from the sale of the peliCAN tee to the Gulf Restoration Network: United for a Healthy Gulf:

“A 15 year old environmental non-profit organization committed to uniting and empowering people to protect and restore the natural resources of the Gulf Region for future generations. They’re the only environmental organization working Gulf-wide, and since the first days of BP’s oil drilling disaster, they’ve provided independent monitoring and advocacy focused on holding BP accountable and ensuring an effective and transparent response to the crisis.”

Why not simply donate the $10 towards the Gulf Restoration Network, or any other charity organization making an impact in the gulf region? I asked myself this too. First of all, Threadless is donating ALL SALES PROCEEDS, not just net revenue, i.e. profit. And, please suppress your inner cynic for a moment, I know how hard it is since I am the biggest gullible cynic I know, by more people wearing the t-shirts, more people outside of the Gulf Region who otherwise would have stopped thinking about this quickly (“Out of sight, out of mind”) will not be able to forget or ignore as easily this disaster that is still going on, and will go on for many many years to come.

Besides, it IS a very nice looking shirt!

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I am also thinking that in order to encourage more people to order the peliCAN tees, we should have a contest of some sort. Wet t-shirts contest?? That may be too self-serving since I cannot wait to see all you sexy people sending me photos of you wearing this tee, drenching wet. *Fans self*

Makeup

19 Replies

1.

Reading the comments people left for my last post, praising me for recognizing and questioning the rigid gender rules, in addition to feeling thankful, I am actually embarrassed. Feeling a bit like a fraud. A hypocrite.

In an ironic way, although I set out to remain anonymous so I can speak my mind on my blog, perhaps I have been putting my best face forward when I am spouting parental wisdoms: For the hours I am composing my posts, I am wise and patient; The rest of the time, I feel my way around in the dark, making horrible mistakes.

Such is the peril (merit) of knowing someone online: s/he is made up of the words they (choose to) publish.

I do struggle with how much I need to compromise on a daily basis because my kids are school-aged and they deal with realities in the school hallways, in the classrooms, on the playground. They are their own people and I no longer live their lives for them.  I feel that it is unfair, selfish even on my part, to allow (encourage?) my children to become social pariahs because of my own philosophical convictions. Because I have a point to make.

I am torn every day between wanting to challenge what pass as gender “norms” and needing to protect them. As some of us have learned the hard way, some mishaps stay with you for the rest of your school career, if not your life.

“Make sure you do not have BO. You don’t want to go down the history as ‘THAT kid with BO’. Once a rumor starts with you having BO, it does not matter whether you have BO, or whether it was just once after the gym class, because you know, you are going to be, yup, you guessed it, ‘THAT kid with BO’!” I warned my oldest, despite much eye-rolling on his part.

2.

The morning after I published the post, feeling pleased with myself. Smug even, I’ll admit.

Fuck you, world! I had declared.

Mom. 1. World. 0.

At breakfast my oldest was leafing through Mr. Monk’s notebook.

“Don’t touch my diary!” Mr. Monk reached over to secure it. (Before you are impressed that he keeps a diary, well, so far, he has only filled out ONE page. And that was a long time ago…)

“But I want to see it!” His brother grabbed a hold of it.

“NO! It’s mine! Don’t look at it!”

“Why can’t I look at it? You are saying I can’t look at it only because I want to look at it now. If I say I don’t want to look at it, you are not going to care!” My oldest, the future lawyer. I believe we have established that before.

“Just don’t touch it. It’s my diary!”

After a few more minutes of heated exchanges, I had chosen to stay out of these occurrences that happen all the friggin’ time throughout the day, my oldest delivered the throwaway punch:

“Fine! Anyway, diaries are for girls!!”

My eyes widened. I could see the steam coming out of my nostrils the mad bull into which those words had transformed me.

“What did you just say?” Disbelief. The first time I heard something like this in my household. An utterance that dared to arbitrarily dictate what a boy is not supposed to do from the mouth of my own child directed at his own brother. Ironic, isn’t it?

“Diaries are for GIRLS! He’s like a girl! Only girls keep a diary!” Words tumbled out with the intention to hurt.

By now no longer a mad bull, I was Fury Herself. “Please shut your mouth right now!” I did not mince words. Did I ever mention that I have a fiery temper?

I went on to drop my oldest off at his band practice (Our lives are full of ironies…)

“Why did you say ‘Diaries are for girls’ to your brother?”

“Because it is true. THEY ARE! And that was 10 minutes ago! Why are you still talking about it?!”

“BECAUSE I don’t want my children to grow up believing in gender stereotypes!” I know I sound ridiculous. But I do talk to my oldest in such a fashion.

“How can that be a stereotype if it is true?!”

“Why is it true? Why do you think it is true? Who gave you the right to say what is for a girl and what is for a boy? Who gave you the right to be spouting such nonsense in my house? How would you like it if someone makes fun of you because of your long hair? That you look like a girl?” I am not proud of myself but I do get carried away when debating against my oldest. Because he’s always so sure of himself, so quick to argue, I often forget that he’s only 11 3/4.

“I DON’T LOOK LIKE A GIRL!”

“How did you feel when some girls laughed at your because you are in gymnastics?”

Pause. True to his heritage as a “Last Word-er” though, he soon retorted, “It’s different!”

“Why is it different? No. I want to know why you think it is different.”

“Just because!” He’s crying now. “Fine! Diaries are for boys too, ok? And what does it matter? He‘s going to be made fun of anyway because he speaks with a British accent!”

Mom. 0. World. 1.

On some days, I just want to surrender, and curl up inside a cozy black cave. Wake me up when they turn 25 please.

3.

After watching me going through my nightly ritual of makeup removal, Mr. Monk asked, “Why do women wear makeup?”

“Because we want to look pretty.”

“So why can’t boys wear makeup?”

I couldn’t think of any legitimate reason other than, “Well, they just don’t.”

Mr. Monk walked away with my powder brush, unsatisfied with my copped-out answer.

Later my husband came in the bedroom, I repeated the question for his benefit, “Yeah… WHY can’t boys wear makeup?”

“Because their fathers will kill them. That’s why.” He summed it up succinctly.

At this moment, Mr. Monk came back to the room and asked his father, “Why can’t I wear makeup?”

“Because I will kill you. Ask Grandpa what he would do if I wore make up. He would kill me too.”

“But Michael Jackson does!” Mr. Monk protested; I looked away, trying hard not to laugh out loud.

My husband retorted, in a tone that signaled end of discussion, “Michael Jackson is dead!”

Thank goodness for dads. That’s what came to my mind as I sneaked away from this land mine of a conversation.