Beyond FINDS: Carleen at Pajama Gardener and Jodi at Reimer Reason

I spent half an hour earlier this morning surfing favorite blogs despite the little voice that kept telling me to clean the kitchen, start the laundry, figure out what I’m going to do with my (very long straight) hair when I finally get it cut later today, finish the vacuuming I started yesterday, pull some more weeds before it pours again this afternoon, etc. etc. Oh yes, and get back to the various WsIP waiting in the wings. Funny thing about procrastinating with me, though: I always know when I’m doing it that there’s a reason. And right now I’m very glad I “wasted” half an hour reading blogs because I discovered two Mother’s Day columns that not only deserve to be read but deserve to be featured.

Once again Carleen Brice over at Pajama Gardener amazed me with an insightful column, this one about “the motherless.” While I enjoyed yet another wonderful phone conversation on Mother’s Day with my mom who’s in her seventies and lives with my dad in the house I grew up in, I suspect this holiday has been challenging for her since her own mother died 60 years ago. Though you’d never guess it. Growing up, my siblings and I simply regaled her with our own Mother’s Day wishes and hand-made cards and school projects and assumed that was enough. As an adult, however, I began to wonder.

Mom has a 5x7 black-and-white photograph of her mother on her dresser, and when I wrote her a poem about being a mother and a daughter after my first child was born, she placed the poem with the photo. That simple placement made me realize how much she missed her mother and how much she’d still like to tell her. The gist of the poem centers on gratitude and understanding. It begins “While I’ve always known you loved me, I never realized the strength of the ties that bind a mother to her child” and finishes “I know how much you love me, Mom, now that I’m a mother, too.” Carleen’s column pays tribute to my mom and to each “motherless child” who mothered themselves—and others—for so many years, who still wonder “what if” or think “if only” when thoughts of a missing mother come to mind.

My second find thanks to this morning’s procrastination: Kristen at From Here to There and Back directed me to Jodi at Reimer Reason, who reprinted a stunning tribute to fellow moms with children with special needs. For a glimmer of what these very special moms endure and share and overcome on a daily basis, read this piece by Maureen K. Higgins. (If anyone can direct me to a website by or about Maureen, I’d appreciate it.) My favorite line: “You are compassionate beyond the expectations of this world.” Despite the fact that so many mothers, as Maureen puts it, get up every morning wondering how they’ll make it through another day and go to bed every evening not sure how they did it, such women show us over and over again the strength and power each of us possesses. Maybe that’s why I’m drawn to read and write about them, maybe that’s why I continue to seek out their unique, hard-won perspectives. We’re all just passing through this world, as Maureen again so eloquently puts it. Despite constant and immense demands on their time, energy, and sanity, many fellow travelers like moms with children with special needs generously share what they’re going through along the way, inspiring us all to keep plugging despite the life challenges we’re destined to face.

Beyond FUNDRAISING: Direct Donations to Desperate Myanmarians

I’m tempted to apologize for a dire call for donations on Mother’s Day, but as we move on to other pressing issues I’m afraid the people suffering untold miseries in central Myanmar will be quickly forgotten. Since the onslaught of Cyclone Nargis on May 3, aid has been notoriously slow in arriving to those in need thanks to the idiocy of the military government in this country formerly known as Burma. So I understand why many in the West would hesitate to donate via the typical aid organizations.

But there’s another way, and it’s an ideal way to get funds directly to the front lines of the current war (and yes, these people are fighting a war every minute against depression and despair after the sudden loss of loved ones, against homelessness, starvation, fatal water-borne illnesses, lack of security, the fear of impending violence) in this impoverished delta region via those on the front lines: Burmese monks.

According to the impressive international internet-advocacy organization Avaaz.org, “the monasteries are the only source of shelter and food for Burma’s poorest people. They have been on the front lines of the aid effort since the storm struck.” To send your donation to the Burmese monks “the most trusted and reliable institution in the country” of Myanmar, go here. Avaaz.org reports it’s already raised over a million and half dollars in this week-old effort.

If you’re still unsure, imagine you’re a mother whose children are dying for lack of clean water to drink and a protein-rich biscuit to eat, a mother who’s children are not only dangerously ill but who have nowhere to sleep and feel safe, a mother who may be sick and dying and grieving herself. Let’s help the Burmese Monks do what they do so well by flooding them with tangible proof we truly care about these mothers and their families on this day we call Mother’s Day. Then let’s spread the word so others can pitch in and feel good and confident about where their donations are going. The hardships these poor people are facing aren’t going to go away overnight; neither should our concern for them or our determination to help.

Photo © Associated Press

Beyond FAREWELL: Mildred Loving

Madame Carleen over at Pajama Gardener served up a sweet tribute on May 7 to Mildred Loving (pictured above with her husband, Richard), who died earlier this month. Mildred Loving was a lady whose determination to do what was right for herself and her husband and family resulted in the monumental Supreme Court decision Loving v. Virginia that ultimately impacted her entire country. Carleen’s personal notes about her marriage echo mine. My thanks to the Lovings also extend to my husband’s parents who were brave enough to marry across the huge racial divide of 1964, and whose son (my sweetie) arrived on the scene in 1965.

For full details of the historic Loving v. Virginia decision of 1967, check out the New York Times obituary referred to in Carleen’s post. And for insights into Mildred Loving and her perspective regarding the rights of all people to marry, read the powerful Loving for All statement she presented at the 40th anniversary of Loving v. Virginia last year on June 12...a date now known as Loving Day.

Carleen also noted Barack Obama’s heritage as a son of parents who crossed racial lines. I find it intriguing that Mrs. Loving’s passing occurred in the same year our first presidential candidate of color is campaigning. I hope she felt proud of what she accomplished and that she enjoyed the many later years she was able to spend back in her beloved state of Virginia.

Beyond FINESSE: Poet Mark Strand on Narrative—and Personal—Destiny

Pulitzer Prize-winning poet and former U.S. Poet Laureate Mark Strand visited Lighthouse Writers in Denver this past weekend for a reading and Q&A session on Saturday followed by a discussion of craft (and poets, cooking, art, translation, travel, etc.!) Sunday morning.

When novelist Eli Gottlieb introduced Strand on Saturday he referred to the poet’s “ongoing creative growth through a life of art.” Since the early ’60s Strand has published eleven poetry collections as well as books of prose, children’s books, and volumes of translations, anthologies, and monographs. Originally a visual art student, his appreciation for the craft of painting remains evident in his writing, his outlook, his conversations about living a creative life. As does his love for Kafka, for lines of prose so original he “can’t anticipate” how they’ll turn, for lines that inevitably surprise him and yet exist in perfect harmony within a text.

Both days Strand mentioned the importance of his friends, fellow writers who serve as “ballasts” and sources of “confidence in the face of apathy,” especially during periods of self-doubt. He spoke of going two years without writing, and how he always trusts he’ll return when it’s time:

“It’s a question of time,” he said, “of what’s going to make a difference, of what matters, of what doesn’t bore me to death. And of course there’s a book that comes along.” His eyes brightened as he asked if anyone had read A Heart so White by Spanish novelist Javier Marias, a writer he praised for his sentences, his investments in the “smallest details,” his nuanced expositions.

When he does write, Strand emphasized his preference for writing in longhand because he wants to “slow things down.” Noting that the look of a computer printout is “too final,” he said, “I want to resist that as long as possible, to feel [a poem] is mine until I’m certain it’s absolutely finished.” And he added that when he writes in longhand he’s “hearing” his writing to make sure a poem’s “cadence asserts itself independent of its performance” because “poetry insists on cadence.”

Strand described himself as a fantastical poet who stresses the “psychological imperatives” of a character’s personality quirks (yes, Carleen, that quirk meme is a great tool for character development!), noting the fun that can be had when what an unusual character considers normal behavior is considered bizarre by others.

With all that, a poet (or a fiction writer, I’d argue) must “offer a narrative scheme to keep the reader on track.” A reader will stay with a piece as long as he/she is confident “there’s a destination.” Easy enough, right? Until you take Strand’s next piece of advice to “incorporate absurdity into the narrative destiny.”

But take heart if you’re feeling at all discouraged by the art you’re striving to create, absurd or otherwise. Strand, who fully deserves to rest on his laurels as one of the most widely awarded poets of our time, admits he’s often frustrated: “[There exists] a consistent aesthetic that operates when I write,” he said, “but I want to dismantle it, to write vastly different poems.” He also noted, however, that what you write at a particular time in life is influenced by “the shape of your inner life” and that “a style picks you,” not the other way around. Yet he noted top poets, especially American poets who often “feel their belatedness,” must “take extreme measures to be original” in order to differentiate their new work from everyone else’s—and from their own.

I especially appreciated Strand’s practical advice regarding writing and revising poetry, advice I know I’ll use for everything I write from now on: “[When you have] a vague idea of what a poem should be, revise toward that image,” he said, adding: “In an ideal state, you’ll see it first. Develop that idea as you write. Sometimes you have to change the idea if you’re fighting it too hard; then develop the poem in [the new idea’s] direction.”

“A poem is finished when you can’t do anything with it,” he also said, “when you’re excited about it, when you keep it a while…and are still excited about it.”

When asked if he thought he was a good poet when he started out or even after he’d achieved some notoriety, Strand shrugged and said, “I thought I was good enough to continue.

“I still think I’m not the bee’s knees,” he added. “I do what I do…. We each do what we’re coded to do.”

So…what are you coded to do? Something to think about, isn’t it?

Photo of the poet © Emily Mott at Blue Flower Arts

Beyond FANTASTIC: Lisa Alvarado: “From the Tips of My Fingers to the Tips of My Toes”

Poet and author Lisa Alvarado writes often for La Bloga. I’m so pleased to have stumbled across her amazing May 1 essay, “From the Tips of My Fingers to the Tips of My Toes.” Consider her opening:

“This is about my hands and feet. Actually it’s about work and its remnants, about being working-class, Chicana, about going where you don’t belong, or where you think you don’t belong, or no matter where you go there is always some part of you on the outside, watching, seeing what gets played out, wondering how you fit in, what you need to do.”

Read on to the end, which is just as powerful as the beginning. Then again, every line of Lisa Alvarado’s writing packs a punch.

Beyond FAMILY: “The Color of Love”

Jodie over at Jodie’s Random Thoughts knows a thing or two about love. A mom of four kids—teenager Colin, almost-four-year-old Tyler, three-year-old Emmalee, and eight-month-old Nathaniel—Jodie has been spending a lot of time at the hospital lately with Tyler, who has Down Syndrome and earlier this year was diagnosed with leukemia. While her love for her family has always been evident in her blog posts, Jodie’s admiration and adoration for her brave little boy and his siblings really shine through in the CaringBridge journal updates she writes.

With all Jodie has going on, I was happy to read she’s been squeezing in a little reading of her own and was intrigued by her May 1 link to an article on trans-racial adoption that recently ran in Women’s Day Magazine. Jodie’s baby boy, Nathaniel, is black while the rest of her family is white. The article features a black couple who adopted a white baby boy and then became pregnant with their own baby boy a couple years later. While WD articles tend to be pretty light, this article examined the father’s concerns regarding the adoption in nice detail. “‘I couldn’t help but wonder what I, as a black man, would have to face when we went out together,’” the dad said, certain they’d “get stares.” “And what if he had to discipline the child in public?” the article continues. “How would other people react?”

I believe the writer at this point meant “How would other people react to the adoption” but the first time I read it I immediately related it to my husband’s concerns when our son was little about how others would react whenever he had to discipline his son in public. While my girls resemble my husband’s family to different degrees, my son resembles me: light hair, light eyes, light skin (though his tans; lucky duck). I’ve told the story before of my husband having to carry his screaming little boy out of a furniture store. Imagine what you’d think if you saw a black man carry a screaming white child with blonde baby curls out of a store. Now consider the possibility someone might call the police and you have an inkling of what was going through my husband’s mind at the moment.

Luckily for the dad featured in the article, his wife’s calm approach to the adoption and conviction (that he immediately shared once he held his first newborn son) that this child was meant to be part of their family helped him cope with his very real concerns. But I imagine he still worries “what others think” at times, and I appreciate articles that promote such understanding. I also appreciate folks like Jodie—and the couple featured in this article—who open their hearts and homes and lives to others despite the challenges inherent in adopting across racial lines, especially in a world that still isn’t sure what to make of such choices.

Stock photo from WD site

Beyond FINDING A WAY: It’s the Little Things

I’m having a rollercoaster week. The husband’s out of town, which I usually handle okay unless I try to get way too much done without him around to say “Relax and have a glass of wine, sit down and watch something funny on TV with me,” that sort of sweet thing. Good for my soul but not for my to-do list, and I have to admit I love getting things done. To an unhealthy degree sometimes, and this week is a case in point. Last week was my birthday and it was easy-going and fun. One of my sisters sent me a very sweet card that arrived on Saturday, the same day I received a rejection letter from an unimpressed agent of my dreams who’d been intrigued by my query but not so crazy about the partial of One Sister’s Song she’d recently read. In blatant rebellion on Monday and Tuesday I wrote 2,000 words each day to start a new novel. Not the first novel (One Sister’s Song) I’ve been trying to sell to a bigger publisher for over a year (with my original publisher’s blessing; thanks Sherry!); not the second novel (Under the Humming Tide) that’s been sitting, complete but unworkshopped, in a proverbial drawer for TWO years; not the collection of short stories (The Average Weight of the Female Heart) I’m halfway through. A third novel. Which I hope to finish within record time for me, maybe even a few months. We’ll see! Another reaction to my latest rejection letter (you know it’s bad news when they actually use that damn SASE!): I told someone yesterday I’m just going to write as much as possible and it can all be published after I’m dead for all I care. Some days that really does seem like a good way to go (literally!).

And in the midst of all this, I get:

1) a hilarious quirky tag from Carleen (see if you can read her quirks without cracking up);

2) a kind, encouraging note from Rebecca Burgess on my last post; and

3) a surprise review from Lisa Kenney, who recently read One Sister’s Song (which is still in print with my original publisher; thanks Sherry!) and apparently really enjoyed it. Either that, or she’s just being nice because I know where she lives. Either way, I’ll take it! Woohoo!

It’s friends like these who remind me that even when it’s cold and gray and snowing (!!) on May 1st here in the south suburbs of Denver, much sunnier days lie ahead.

And now for a brief glance at quirky me for Carleen’s meme:

1) I know all the words to the song “Misty”;

2) I’m a compulsive picker-upper (who would probably drive Carleen and Lisa’s Scott crazy; my husband swears the second he puts down anything in our house I’m there to snatch it and file it away);

3) I have a bizarre memory for things I saw or heard even in early childhood;

4) I’m blind as a bat (i.e., extremely nearsighted) but have acute hearing;

5) my ears hurt when I’m tired or stressed; and

6) I can wiggle both my ears.

I just realized half of my quirks involve my ears. Hmmmm!

As for tags for this unique meme (please see Carleen’s post for the official rules, ladies): Lisa, Rebecca, Larramie, Judy, Patti, and Kristen.

And one last quirk: I talk to myself. A lot. Which is probably why I love to blog so much! Thanks—as always—for listening.

Beyond FAMILY: Help Women, Help the World

Matt over at Empathy and Britt over at Have Fun * Do Good continue to teach me about inspiring organizations across the country and around the world. Two recent articles on their sites led me to discover the award-winning Women Thrive Worldwide (which is celebrating ten years of service) and one of its unique partners, Global Fund for Women (which is celebrating 20 years of service). I hope both WTW and the GFW will be helping women for many more years to come:

Women Thrive Worldwide “develops, shapes, and advocates for U.S. policies that foster economic opportunity for women living in poverty.” Due to its immense impact on international assistance and trade policies on women in poor countries, the United States is encouraged by WTW and its partners to create concrete, long-term results for women living in poverty.

While helping to ensure that U.S. international assistance and trade programs prioritize women, Women Thrive Worldwide also pushes U.S. legislators to address barriers such as unequal social and economic hardships that prevent women in poverty from earning a decent living and supporting their families. According to the WTW, women in poor countries use most of their income for food, healthcare, and education for children, efforts which—when supported—can lift entire communities out of poverty. As the WTW puts it: “By prioritizing women in programs the U.S. is already running—often by changing a few words in a piece of legislation—we can spread opportunity to millions of women and families living in poverty and help end poverty for good.”

Women Thrive Worldwide operates via a coalition of more than 25,000 individuals and more than 50 organizations such as CARE, Amnesty International, and the Global Fund for Women.

With offices in San Francisco and New York, the Global Fund for Women promotes women’s economic security, health, education, and leadership via “an international network of women and men committed to a world of equality and social justice.” It also “advocates for and defends women’s human rights by making grants to support women’s groups around the world.”

The GFW uses a flexible, responsive style of grantmaking that considers the varied challenges faced by women in different communities, cultures, religions, traditions, and countries. By taking into account a woman’s personal experiences, the GFW not only supports each client but honors her understanding of her needs as well as her ideas for potential solutions. This inherent appreciation for the individuals they serve and their unique situations allows the Global Fund for Women to achieve lasting change in the lives of many women and their families.

While donations are certainly sought by Women Thrive Worldwide and the Global Fund for Women, you can also help by shopping with these organizations’ on-line shopping supporters here and here.

Consider this terrific line from the WTW site: “When you teach a woman to fish, everybody eats.” Long-term poverty ends when women in poverty are empowered. Thanks to organizations like Women Thrive Worldwide and the Global Fund for Women, more women are receiving the assistance they need than they otherwise ever would. And thanks to thoughtful bloggers like Matt and Britt, more of us know what’s happening on these critical fronts—and how to help.

Photo © Monia Sbreni

Beyond FINESSE: Drama Mama at Like a Shark

So I’m scanning my favorite blogs, catching up on everyone’s news, and Drama Mama—also known as lovely Miss M’s mom—stops me short with more than one recent heartfelt, knock-your-socks-off post despite the fact she’s been working herself ragged and relishing the fruits of her exhaustion the way only a phenomenally inspired and creative educator can.

What I read over again, realizing I had to feature it here, was her Hot Button Issue post. When a student gave Drama Mama the button pictured above, Drama Mama not only wore it all day, she taught a few of her other students—as well as some co-workers and various strangers—an important lesson…and gave many others a reason to smile. A few gave her confused looks and said “But you’re not black;” or “Is that a new group?” Others, thankfully, said simply “I like your button.”

To the latter folks, Drama Mama notes: “I suppose anyone who feels different, who experiences challenge and overcomes it, who is proud and righteous and wants to make a change feels ‘black.’ That is not to diminish what it truly means to be black.… We are a tribe, and we look out for each other.”

To those who were confused, she explains:

“I was not conducting an experiment, or trying to get a rise out of folks. My student gave me a gift, and I, touched by her gesture of inclusion, wore it proudly. I mean, I am honored that she considers me an honorary member of her tribe.…

“The message to me [from this student] was this: You see me. You feel what I feel. You appreciate my difference, as well as our similarities. I’m proud of myself, and you’re proud of me.”

Would that every student felt so understood, in and out of school. Rock on, Drama Mama. I’m glad you’re in my tribe, too.

Beyond FINALLY: A Long-Overdue Spring Overview

And suddenly we’re halfway through April. Can someone please tell me how that happened?! After two weeks of flukey snowfalls, it seems Denver’s heading into the 60s today with at least a few days of warmer weather in the immediate forecast. We’re getting there!

I’ve been amassing and reading some unique books lately:

Earthly Fathers by Scott Sawyer. I met Scott last year via his wife Joy, a Denver poet and fellow 2007-2008 associate of the Rocky Mountain Women’s Institute. Scott’s memoir is a tribute not only to his father who died when Scott was a baby and his beloved step-father, but to many members of his immediate and extended Texan families who cared deeply for young Scotty and his brother. Surprising turns and tragedies as well as the challenge of reconciling oneself with the demands of a difficult past are explored throughout Earthly Fathers with honest emotion and an ultimate sense of acceptance and relief. Kudos, Scotty!

I Heard the Owl Call My Name by Margaret Craven. I wrap up the Junior Great Books Program at my girls’ school next week with a discussion of this young adult classic. Margaret Craven wrote this first novel in 1973 at the age of 69. A tribute to a British Columbian Native American tribe and its fading unique way of life, I Heard the Owl Call My Name tells the story of a young Christian vicar and his experiences living among the tribe. While this story has been criticized for its portrayal of the white man invading an indigenous people and imposing his religion, I read it as a realistic portrayal of historical events. I agree native people all over the world would have been better off living without the intrusion of foreigners and foreign ways. But missionaries did what they did and various cultures intermixed; by documenting the ways this particular vicar respected and learned so much from the people he’d been sent to serve, Margaret Craven provided us with a lovely, bittersweet remembrance.

Age Ain’t Nothing but a Number by Carleen Brice. So, I have this birthday coming up next week. Not a big decade-changing birthday, but a 40-something one. In preparation for this pending birthday (and hopefully many more) I finally bought Carleen’s classic anthology of essays by treasured African American women writers, Age Ain’t Nothing but a Number. AND I got it signed on the spot. How cool is that? Essays by the likes of Nikki Giovanni, Alice Walker, Rita Dove, Terry McMillan, Gloria Naylor, Maya Angelou, Pearl Cleage and many more debunk archaic assumptions about black women in particular and all women in general; embrace the challenges and freedoms of the mid-years; and celebrate the many joys and surprises that accompany them. A classic in its own rite, Age Ain’t Nothing but a Number has just become a birthday month tradition for yours truly. What a great gift! Thanks, Carleen!

Searching for Paradise in Parker, PA by Kris Radish. I also have Carleen to thank for introducing me to Kris Radish, an inspiring writer who kindly provided the front-cover author blurb for Carleen’s novel, Orange Mint and Honey. Kris visited the south suburban Tattered Cover Book Store last week, and I’m very, very glad I made it to her signing. Check out Carleen’s terrific post on Kris’s presentation as well as her overview of Searching for Paradise in Parker, PA, one of my upcoming summer reads. Did someone say summer?!

Also this spring I’ve become more and more aware of families who need a lot of immediate TLC in the form of prayers and/or virtual hugs and/or cards and well wishes. These are the two on my current radar: Tyler, a little boy in Rochester NY with Down Syndrome who was diagnosed with leukemia earlier this year; and Joey, a little boy in Westchester NY who has Leigh’s disease, a rare, terminal condition that causes the degeneration of the central nervous system. If you’re inclined to help spread some extra spring warmth by reaching out to these families, please do! Joey’s family is asking for a “storm” of prayers this Saturday, April 19, at 4:30 pm EST, when Joey will meet the pope at St. Joseph's Seminary in Yonkers with 49 other children. As Joey’s mom, Gaby, wrote in a recent e-mail, “We are hopeful that all people of different faiths come together to pray for our 4-year-old boy. Faith knows no boundaries and prayer, no matter what religion, is a powerful thing.”

Photo: Tulip on a Spring Morning (near Denver, of course!) by peapicker

Beyond FACTS: Emotional Start to Autism Awareness Month

Some folks who’ve learned from the mass media that April is Autism Awareness Month assert autism has become very trendy these days. Meanwhile parents of children with autism—children who will some day become adults with autism—hope increased awareness will lead to concrete developments in the not-so-far future, developments that will help much more than any new label the general public would like to apply to their loved ones.

I learn something new every day on Kristina Chew’s Autism Vox blog. Kristina offers an intriguing mix of personal stories about her son, Charlie, as well as professional takes on current developments in the growing (and often confusing) network of autism organizations. Kristina lays it all out, states her stand, and ties it all back to life with Charlie. This recent post “Not a Fairy Tale and Not a Tragedy” includes references to a ton of terrific resources, including an April 2 World Autism Day speech by Ari Ne’eman, a college student and president of the Autistic Self-Advocacy Network. You read that right: Self-Advocacy. In his address, Ne’eman confronted the widely held assumption that a diagnosis of any form of autism is tragic:

“The true tragedy is the persistent discrimination, abuse and lack of access that continues to govern society’s approach to us. On this, the first ever World Autism Day, we assert that it is this prejudice—not autism itself—that we have a true interest in combating, in the interest of ensuring for every person the rights of communication, inclusion, self-determination and respect.”

Many, many thanks to Kristina for her tireless and forthcoming writings on the people at the forefront of the drive for increased autism awareness. This issue deserves all the attention it’s getting, as do the folks spearheading the drive.

Another prolific blogger, Kristen at From Here to There and Back, shares insights that don’t include professional analyses of current trends but knock me over with their blunt honesty and emotional intensity. Her recent post, “All I Have to Say” is one of my favorites. What Kristen questions…the reality behind all the hoopla of world awareness days or months…reveals what’s most important to her and what ought to be most important to all of us: “changing the way we think, changing our fundamental approach to respect and acceptance and differences.” Kristen is another mom-writer who reminds me of the critical need to raise awareness of diversity and tolerance issues despite so many questions about where it all leads and what it all truly means, despite so many reservations. Kristen closes her post with what she truly knows, the fact that she’s mom to a wonderful boy who’s impacted and changed her life in wondrous ways.

Other moms of kids with special needs whose blogs teach me more than they’ll ever know, regardless of what the world’s celebrating: Jen, Jodie, Drama Mama, Niksmom, Jennifer, Pam, Vicki, Susan, Kyra, Jenn, Marla, MOM-NOS, Gayle, and Michelle (to name just a few!). Kudos and thanks to you all, ladies. You amaze me every day, all year long.

Beloved photo from From Here to There and Back

Beyond FICTION: THE ENGLISH AMERICAN by Alison Larkin

I spent some wonderful time this evening at the Tattered Cover Book Store in my neck of the woods (there are three in the Denver area and I love them all for different reasons). After ordering Carleen Brice’s Age Ain’t Nothing But a Number from one of the other TC stores; pulling a copy of Patry Francis’s The Liar’s Diary out so it’s more visible on its shelf in the Mystery Section; plucking a nifty copy of The Kids’ Yoga Book of Feelings off a display to bring home for my girls; and following a salesperson back to the front of the store where a huge display of Alison Larkin’s debut novel, The English American, could be seen for miles away by any other shopper but yours truly who’d walked right by it…I doled out some cash, perused some displays, and parked in a chair to wait for Alison Larkin’s presentation to begin.

And I started reading…and laughing…and reading some more of The English American, a book I know I’m going to tear through because it’s just so much fun. As is Alison Larkin, an actress and stand-up comedienne. Alison’s successful one-woman show, also called The English American, pokes fun at the contrasts of her own life, contrasts that formed the basis of her novel’s story and informed its important message regarding the restricted rights of adopted people.

The English American tells the story of a British woman named Pippa Dunn who strives to discover her true roots despite significant emotional, administrative, and other obstacles she’s forced to face throughout the ordeal of researching her birth mother. Pippa’s discovery that her birth mother is American and hails from the Mid-South parallels Alison Larkin’s own fascinating discovery of her birth mother’s identity and background. Alison states clearly, however, that The English American is not a memoir; that she’d have been bored writing a memoir because, frankly, she already knew the story. She wanted to write a novel that would be fun to read; a book paced like the thrillers she loves. So she opted for succinct chapters and direct language and threw in a boatload of humor for good measure. What she created is a work of fiction that packs a wallop of a message: the Draconian (yes, her word; and her accent makes it sound all the more impressive!) laws in America regarding closed adoption files make the process of researching one’s family a daunting if not impossible task for adopted people, many of whom devote much of their lives to this quest. British laws changed in the 1970s, she explained, making the files regarding adoptions there open despite concerns that such laws would result in fewer birth mothers choosing the adoption option, skyrocketing abortion rates, and tremendous emotional distress among all parties involved throughout England….none of which happened.

In fact, Alison Larkin insists, the process of discovering and meeting one’s birth parents is a healing process many need to undertake, a process that is essential for them to ever feel whole, discover where they belong, and have a true chance at happiness. For the emotional sake of their adopted children—and due to the need for biological family medical records—more adoptive parents are voicing concern regarding American adoption laws. Meanwhile birth mothers who desire contact with their grown children are also cheated by their legal limitations.

The emotions experienced and expressed by Pippa, her adoptive parents, and her birth mother throughout the pages of The English American reflect those experienced by Alison Larkin and both her families. While Pippa’s search takes much less time than Alison’s, the red tape and dead ends she encounters frustrate and anger her as they upset Alison. By writing and now promoting this book, Alison Larkin is spreading the word about America’s adoption laws, realizing as she does so that many Americans are unaware of the limited rights of adopted people. As she put it, adopted people are the only people in the U.S. who are forced to change their names—outside of people in the Witness Protection Program—and who are refused access to their own birth certificates. This sort of treatment would make anyone feel like a second-rate citizen. “It’s discrimination,” Alison noted, pausing for a moment from her typically jovial celebration of her story to shed some light on the political—and emotional—issues at the heart of her debut novel. “These laws hurt the people they’re designed to protect.”

Beyond THE FUTURE: Hope-filled Signs in Our Tumultuous Times

Stunning photo of HOPE carving from the walls of Stanford Memorial Church © inel.

I suspect when we’re all elderly and telling stories of the good old days to our grandchildren or even great-grandchildren (I don’t know about you but I intend to live to 120; that’s how long it’ll take to read all the books on my TBR list!), we’ll be inclined to describe the early years of this century as anything but terrific. Since the 2000 election through 9-11 through the fateful days of March 2003 and the past five years of misguided, devastating wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, the U.S. has seen its international image tarnished to previously unimagined levels. Meanwhile at home, the past year’s economic fiascos and this year’s fall-out have forced many Americans out of their homes and into serious financial trouble. All this just scratches the surface, of course (don’t even get me started on gas prices; does anyone else remember the ’70s? Anyone?), but dwelling on the negatives is not what I prefer to do on this blog. Instead, before I embark on a two-week spring break blogging hiatus, I’d like to highlight two speeches, one given just this week and one given a year ago this month. Both these speeches are profound yet direct in their approach. Both also offer very encouraging, hope-filled signs despite the trouble times in which we live.

Enjoy, keep the faith, and happy spring!

If you’ve yet to read Senator Barack Obama’s “A More Perfect Union” speech about race, its impact on the current election, and where our painful history can finally take us, please read or listen to it when you have time to really read or listen to it. I believe there’s a message here that every single American deserves to hear.

Thanks to Melissa at Mutterings of a Mindless Mommy for running the following speech in its entirety a while back. It’s well worth running again, especially on a blog that celebrates heroines and heros who promote tolerance. I hope we’ll hear much more from Soeren Palumbo in the not-so-far future. We need many more leaders on all fronts who truly care about others; who operate with a solid, heartfelt understanding of what’s right and what’s wrong; and who are brave and wise enough to put their beliefs into words and proclaim them for all the world to hear.

Soeren was a senior honors student at Fremd High School in Wheeling, Illinois, in March of last year. During Writer’s Week, he gave this speech to a gymnasium full of his high school peers and faculty and received a standing ovation. He went on to serve as a Youth Summit Leader for the 2007 International Special Olympics and is now a student at the University of Notre Dame.

I want to tell you a quick story before I start. I was walking through hallways, not minding my own business, listening to the conversations around me. As I passed the front door on my way to my English classroom, I heard the dialogue between two friends nearby. For reasons of privacy, I would rather not give away their race or gender.

So the one girl leans to the other, pointing to the back of a young man washing the glass panes of the front door, and says, “Oh my gaw! I think it is so cute that our school brings in the black kids from around the district to wash our windows!” The other girl looked up, widened her slanted Asian eyes and called to the window washer, easily loud enough for him to hear, “Hey, Negro! You missed a spot!” The young man did not turn around. The first girl smiled a bland smile that all white girls—hell, all white people—have and walked on. A group of Mexicans stood by and laughed that high pitch laugh that all of them have.

So now it’s your turn. What do you think the black window washer did? What would you do in that situation? Do you think he turned and calmly explained the fallacies of racism and showed the girls the error of their way? That’s the one thing that makes racism, or any discrimination, less powerful in my mind. No matter how biased or bigoted a comment or action may be, the guy can turn around and explain why racism is wrong and, if worst comes to worst, punch ’em in the face.

Discrimination against those who can defend themselves, obviously, cannot survive. What would be far worse is if we discriminated against those who cannot defend themselves. What then, could be worse than racism?

Look around you and thank God that we don’t live in a world that discriminates and despises those who cannot defend themselves. Thank God that every one of us in this room, in this school, hates racism and sexism and by that logic discrimination in general. Thank God that every one in this institution is dedicated to the ideal of mutual respect and love for our fellow human beings. Then pinch yourself for living in a dream. Then pinch the hypocrites sitting next to you. Then pinch the hypocrite that is you.

Pinch yourself once for each time you have looked at one of your fellow human beings with a mental handicap and laughed. Pinch yourself for each and every time you denounced discrimination only to turn and hate those around you without the ability to defend themselves, the only ones around you without the ability to defend themselves. Pinch yourself for each time you have called someone else a “retard.”

If you have been wondering about my opening story, I’ll tell you that it didn’t happen, not as I described it. Can you guess what I changed? No, it wasn’t the focused hate on one person, and no it wasn’t the slanted Asian eyes or cookie cutter features white people have or that shrill Hispanic hyena laugh (yeah, it hurts when people make assumptions about your person and use them against you, doesn’t it?).

The girl didn’t say “Hey, Negro.” There was no black person.

It was a mentally handicapped boy washing the windows. It was “Hey, retard.” I removed the word retard. I removed the word that destroys the dignity of our most innocent. I removed the single most hateful word in the entire English language.
I don’t understand why we use the word; I don’t think I ever will.

In such an era of political correctness, why is it that retard is still ok? Why do we allow it? Why don’t we stop using the word? Maybe students can’t handle stopping—I hope that offends you students, it was meant to—but I don’t think the adults, here can either.

Students, look at your teacher, look at every member of this faculty. I am willing to bet that every one of them would throw a fit if they heard the word faggot or nigger—hell the word Negro—used in their classroom. But how many of them would raise a finger against the word retard? How many of them have? Teachers, feel free to raise your hand or call attention to yourself through some other means if you have.

That’s what I thought. Clearly, this obviously isn’t a problem contained within our age group.

So why am I doing this? Why do I risk being misunderstood and resented by this school’s student body and staff? Because I know how much you can learn from people, all people, even—no, not even, especially—the mentally handicapped.

I know this because every morning I wake up and I come downstairs and I sit across from my sister, quietly eating her Cheerios. And as I sit down she sets her spoon down on the table and she looks at me. Her strawberry blonde hair hanging over her freckled face almost completely hides the question mark-shaped scar above her ear from her brain surgery two Christmases ago.

She looks at me and she smiles. She has a beautiful smile; it lights up her face. Her two front teeth are faintly stained from the years of intense epilepsy medication but I don’t notice that anymore. I lean over to her and say, “Good morning, Olivia.” She stares at me for a moment and says quickly, “Good morning, Soeren,” and goes back to her Cheerios.

I sit there for a minute, thinking about what to say. “What are you going to do at school today, Olivia?” She looks up again. “Gonna see Mista Bee!” she replies loudly, hugging herself slightly and looking up. Mr. B. is her gym teacher and perhaps her favorite man outside of our family on the entire planet and Olivia is thoroughly convinced that she will be having gym class every day of the week. I like to view it as wishful thinking.

She finishes her Cheerios and grabs her favorite blue backpack and waits for her bus driver, Miss Debbie, who, like clockwork, arrives at our house at exactly 7 o’clock each morning. She gives me a quick hug goodbye and runs excitedly to the bus, ecstatic for another day of school.

And I watch the bus disappear around the turn and I can’t help but remember the jokes. The short bus. The “retard rocket.” No matter what she does, no matter how much she loves those around her, she will always be the butt of some immature kid’s joke. She will always be the butt of some mature kid’s joke. She will always be the butt of some “adult’s” joke.

By no fault of her own, she will spend her entire life being stared at and judged. Despite the fact that she will never hate, never judge, never make fun of, never hurt, she will never be accepted. That’s why I’m doing this. I’m doing this because I don’t think you understand how much you hurt others when you hate. And maybe you don’t realize that you hate. But that’s what it is; your pre-emptive dismissal of them, your dehumanization of them, your mockery of them, it’s nothing but another form of hate.

It’s more hateful than racism, more hateful than sexism, more hateful than anything. I’m doing this so that each and every one of you, student or teacher, thinks before the next time you use the word “retard,” before the next time you shrug off someone else’s use of the word “retard.” Think of the people you hurt, both the mentally handicapped and those who love them.

If you have to, think of my sister. Think about how she can find more happiness in the blowing of a bubble and watching it float away than most of us will in our entire lives. Think about how she will always love everyone unconditionally. Think about how she will never hate. Then think about which one of you is “retarded.”

Maybe this has become more of an issue today because society is changing, slowly, to be sure, but changing nonetheless. The mentally handicapped aren’t being locked in their family’s basement anymore.

The mentally handicapped aren’t rotting like criminals in institutions. Our fellow human beings are walking among us, attending school with us, entering the work force with us, asking for nothing but acceptance, giving nothing but love. As we become more accepting and less hateful, more and more handicapped individuals will finally be able to participate in the society that has shunned them for so long. You will see more of them working in places you go, at Dominicks, at Jewel, at Wal-Mart. Someday, I hope more than anything, one of these people that you see will be my sister.

I want to leave you with one last thought. I didn’t ask to have a mentally handicapped sister. She didn’t choose to be mentally handicapped. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything. I have learned infinitely more from her simple words and love than I have from any classroom of “higher education.” I only hope that, one day, each of you will open your hearts enough to experience true unconditional love, because that is all any of them want to give. I hope that, someday, someone will love you as much as Olivia loves me. I hope that, someday, you will love somebody as much as I love her. I love you, Olivia.

Beyond FAMILY: Robert Rummel-Hudson and His Daughter, Schuyler

Wowwee-wow-wow, as early-reader star Junie B. Jones would say. Through the serendipitous world of blogging and books and the web I just discovered author and blogger Robert Rummel-Hudson, otherwise known as Rob, otherwise known as the dad of Schuyler (pronounced Skyler). While I’d love to wax poetic over everything I’ve learned after an hour of lurking on Rob’s blog Fighting Monsters with Rubber Swords and on-line journal Darn-Tootin, I’m going to leave it to interested readers to enjoy that discovery on their own. A good place to start: the recent Dallas Morning News article highlighted in this Fighting Monsters post.

Suffice to say Rob’s a VERY funny guy who’s struggled with his wife Julie to help now eight-year-old Schuyler cope and overcome and flourish despite the rare brain disorder that prevents her from being able to talk, her personal monster bilateral perisylvian polymicrogyria. Rob’s new book, Schuyler’s Monster: A Father’s Journey with His Wordless Daughter (which he calls “a love letter to my daughter”) will be reviewed here before long. Suddenly I’m certain a trip to a favorite Denver bookstore is in order this week. Nice to meet you, Rob!!

Irresistible photo of baby Schuyler in New Haven (© Robert Rummel-Hudson) shamelessly lifted from Rob’s archives