History

So this isn't so much a post, more like commentary to point you toward two others' posts.

Not long ago, I read a piece at PPR Scribe's place that shook me. The piece was about taking her two young daughters to the Underground Railroad Freedom Center in Cincinnati, Ohio.

PPR Scribe does these black and white photos on her site. They are always striking, but the photo of her daughters, in this place, taking this wicked history into their tender hearts, just wrenched my guts. I started to comment that it made me think of the Bohemian's trip to Ghana because ... but I couldn't make it mean what it means, so I deleted it and just said, "Thank you for sharing this" or some such lame nothingness.

Today, Scribe commented about the Bohemian, mentioning her own daughters, and the importance of role models. It got me thinking again about the histories that our daughters share. The Bohemian wrote quite a few posts about Ghana, but there were two that to this day make me feel like my insides are falling.

Yesterday we went to the River of the Last Bath. Basically, when the Europeans had marched their captives through Africa, they dunked them in this river so they'd be clean when they got to the coast, where all the buying was going on. A clean captive brings more money.

All the towns we passed through on the way had the the word "Assin" before the name of the town. In Twi, it means "passing", because the men and women the slave traders captured walked through there in chains. [snip]

I was afraid to go down there and look that in the face. I wished I could refuse to go. I wished that option was there. But of course it wasn't.

If you want to understand why people "can't just let it go", read about the River of the Last Bath.

After that, if you want to know why history still hurts, why it's not all-over-now-anyway, read about Elmina Castle, that splendid structure where the Portuguese, Dutch, and British processed enslaved Africans for their passage to the New World. The photo above is from Elmina.

Whenever we pull up to these places I'm never ready. I'm like, could we come back and do this later? After my lunch has settled - after the air gets cooler - after I take some pictures of the harbor - just hold on a second. But we go in anyway and see the castle, and because of the river I handled it better than I thought I would, but it wasn't something you could look at every day and still be human.

I don't know how anyone can read the rest of those posts without having a perspective shift, without having the air sucked out of them, but reading the words from my daughter ... holy hell, people. That hurts. More so knowing that I can't even understand it. Not really. She is my child, of my body, but as a white person, I can never know the pain she felt. Not really. I'll never be able to shield her from it or take it from her. It was her history, her experience, not mine -- she had to walk there without me, get gutpunched without me, internalize it, mourn it, fight it, and (try to) heal from it without me. She walked with her friends, her sisters, who carried that horrible heaviness with her. I can imagine it, I can think I understand it, but I can not. Not really.

When I read Scribe's post, read about her daughters' tears, about looking out the windows across the Ohio, another River, it hurt my heart to think of all the little girls and boys who have to face this history, reconcile it. Other little girls and boys get to choose whether or not to face it - and their part in it. But it made my heart glad to read about a parent who is teaching her daughters, who is there to walk with them, to share the weight of it. To arm them.

It must've been hard for PPR Scribe and the Bohemian to write these things down, to share them. I hope you take the time to read their posts. And teach your children. Thank you, ladies.

Empty Nest. Sort of.

Last Wednesday I put Male Offspring on a plane to 0man. Took him about 18 hours and two layovers to get there. Before he even got off the ground, he was stopped by Seattle security, on account of he had two rolls bagged up in his pocket, courtesy of his friend who works in a bakery. "Hey Fred! Come take a look at this! This guy's carrying two big round things ... in his pocket!" The rolls were X-rayed and examined. Fred determined they were only rolls, after all. Homeland Security, working for America.

The Son called the next day, around noon.

Me: So, how hot is it over there?

Male Offspring: About 85F.

Me: Oh, that's not too hot, considering it's 0man in June.

MO: It's midnight here.

Oh.

Yes, I am jealous, thanks for asking.

So he'll be there at least until the end of the month. He may stay longer, but hasn't decided yet. The Ex has some fun stuff planned for him, like getting him certified for scuba diving, riding ATVs in the desert, and the like. Very cool stuff for a kid. They may even visit the Rich Man's Paradise of Dubai, where they can indoor ski and visit man made islands.

So, of course, a day or two after Male Offspring's arrival, Somali pirates conducted their first ever attack on a ship in 0mani waters. Wonderful. What are the odds? I just hope the kid wasn't scuba diving in the vicinity.

The Bohemian won't be home much this summer, seeing as how she got a paid internship with NPR and is currently kicking ass doing all sorts of web stuff at her new J-O-B. She is also preparing for her senior recital (!!!) in the fall and hanging out with her significant other. She called me the day her brother left.

The Bohemian: Oh, you'll be all alone in the house ...

Me: Your sister comes home tomorrow night, so there's actually only one night overlap.

The Bohemian: Like I said, you'll be all alone in the house.

Teen Demon is home for the summer. So to speak. Can she already have finished her first year of college? Kids, a little consideration, please -- you're making Mommy feel old. Not cool. So the Demon has a summer job as a cake decorator, making use of her awesome cake decorating skillz. She brought home a buttload of stuff, spent a day in cleaning mode getting her old room back in order, which included hanging a giant shoe holder and a Tupac poster up on her pink walls. Then she left to go camping and fishing.

My ass has been too damn busy to feel lonely though. Besides, the dogs are still here with me. Never underestimate the value of a captive audience.

Cakes or Consequences

Occasionally, whilst engaged in the business of parenting, you get to witness your child absorbing a life lesson with no input or effort on your part whatsoever. Consequences, for instance. One of the toughest lessons to drill into a kid, right? I mean, let's face it, how far into adulthood do most of us get, still struggling with the concept of consequences? Reaping what one sows and all that.

Male Offspring started wrestling season a couple of weeks ago. Last year he wrestled in the 152-lb weight class. This year, as he's still a growing boy who drinks his milk, he's been weighing in at a steady 157 lbs, meaning he'll move up to the 160-lb weight class for his sophomore season.

Doesn't sound like much of a difference, but moving up a weight class is tough, especially when first breaking into the new class. It often means wrestling older, more experienced guys. He's been lifting the weights and practicing hard in anticipation of going up against those 160-pounders.

So today, he goes for a hydration test and a weigh-in.

163 pounds. Uh-oh. Up 6 pounds in less than a week. Shot right past his new weight class.

Think the Great Cake Fest of 2008 had anything to do with it? *

Unless he wants to jump two weight classes, and suddenly be wrestling those 172-lb boys, I'm thinking he'd best jettison the remaining cake bits still populating my kitchen.

Good luck, Son. And let that be a lesson to you. Consequences. That's right. Cake Karma. The hard truth, Son, is that cake is evil. That icing may taste sweet going down, but it's Satan's ambrosia. It will cling to your ass like a bitter conservative clings to guns and religion. It's time you knew the truth: the wages of cake is death, at least on the wrestling mat.

Welcome to the hard reality of consequences, Son. Now you understand why I can not allow Oreos into the house.


*At least I hope it was the Great Cake Fest of 2008. If not, that means it was the Thanksgiving food. And I've been eating that mess like a mo'fo for days.


RETRACTION:
It seems I was mistaken. The lesson on consequences did not have quite the lasting impression as I'd hoped. Oh, he did learn about the consequences of eating multiple cakes on top of Thanksgiving leftovers. He learned a right hard lesson when he stepped on the scales that first day back to practice.

For about a hot minute.

Then he lifted some weights. Then he rode his bike from his high school to the neighboring high school for the required early-season hydration test. Probably 10 miles, round trip. Then they wrestled. Then he weighed himself again.

159 lbs.

I'm sorry ... what? What is there, a tapeworm in there? Who gains six pounds in less than a week, then loses four of it in a few hours? So apparently, he's fine. Good to go. Ready to wrestle.

Brat. Mark my words, Son, in real life, there are consequences. Serious consequences. That's right. Consequences for cake. Mark my words.

Sixteen Cakes. I Mean Candles.

Today Male Offspring turned 16. He was born on Thanksgiving Day. He was overdue, and a big baby, so I'd been wanting him to just get on with it already or start paying rent. We'd been invited to Thanksgiving dinner at a friend's house. For the first time in my adult life, I didn't have to cook! Or do dishes! I was bursting at the seams, had a gait like a defective Weeble, but I was about to be pampered! The night of the 25th, I told the future Male Offspring to hold off until Friday. The whole feast and no-dishes thing really had me going.

Later that night, I felt the first contraction. I spent Thanksgiving day in a hospital bed. At least the ex and the girls smuggled in some food, but I wasn't much into it at that point, after five hours of back labor from my just-shy-of-9-pounds bundle of joy.

So that's how Male Offspring made his grand entry on Thanksgiving Day. And I've been (mostly) very, very thankful for him ever since. Love that kid.

Sixteen years old. It was weird when the girls hit that number -- The Bohemian because she was the first, and Teen Demon because she was the first to drive. But it's weirder when your "baby" hits 16. I don't have kids anymore, I have young people. Next year, I won't have a single Child Tax Credit left. It's an odd feeling.

Teen Demon made him a chocolate cake with a big "16" spelled out in chocolate sprinkles. That was in addition to the multiple cakes, cookies, and brownies that accompanied him home from school. There was a donut cake, a miniature round cake, a giant cake with some kind of food-color-swirled glaze, a heart-shaped cake, and the aforementioned cookies and brownies. "Hey, where'd this cornucopia of cakes come from?" I inquire. I'm informed that they were kindly provided by his "awesome friends". Namely Sophie, Kristen, Hannah, Lindsay, Trinity, Sylvia, Hailey, and Kiahna.  

His cynical aunt queried, "Ask him did any boys make him a cake."

See, this is what Hungarian schools do for a kid. Seriously. In Hungarian school, students moved together as a class from 1st through 8th grade. Like a cohort. For the first four years, Male Offspring and his classmates were even in the same room, with the same teacher. In 5th grade, you get different teachers for each subject, but you still move as a group to each subject. Classmates are seen more as cousins than as potential love interests. Crushing on a classmate? That's one step away from incest. Eeew. By the time 7th and 8th grade roll around, students look to the other classes for their crushes and to their own class for support, friendship, and bickering.

There was none of this "Girls have cooties!" or "Boys! Eeeeew!" business. Male Offspring used to go to sleepovers at his little friend Viktor's house, where half the attendees were girls. No big deal. Girls and boys changed for gym class together right there in the classroom. Even in 8th grade, the Bohemian and her classmates would change into their dress clothes for choir performances all together. Zsuzsi has pink panties? Who cares, she's like your sister, dude. The kids watched out for each other. It really was similar to familial relationships.

Fast forward to 2003, when a very un-American Male Offspring hits US school for the first time in his life. Being a naturally social and adaptable kid, he makes friends easily. Since he was unaware that girls have cooties, he made friends with girls too. The other boys started to notice. In 6th grade, he'd hear from guys he thought were his friends, smirking, "Dude, are you gay or something?" He kept being nice to the girls. They thought him adorable.

Fast forward to 2005. Middle school. The guys, exchanging their smirks for scowls, no longer threw around the G-word. The girls thought him really adorable. Once, I was sitting in the stands for a wrestling match, and heard a gaggle of girls behind me.

Oh.My.God. He.Is.So.Cute.

Yeah, but he's super sweet! It's so funny he's like, a killer wrestler!

Ohmygod, I KNOW!

Is he coming out yet?

Okay, seriously? We have to yell, like, really loud, so he'll see us.

Ohmygod, I know! It's going to be so funny!

He'll be so surprised by our sign!

Ohmygod, I KNOW!

How cute, I think. Young crushes. Poor guy won't know what hit him. Back to the match. Male Offspring's turn, he's out on the mat. Suddenly, the gaggle of girls behind explodes into a cacophony of girlness.

WE LOVE YOU MALE OFFSPRING!!!

Oh. Oh! Is there another Male Offspring on the team? There is not. I turn around to see them furiously waving their glittery sign at my son. Then they're looking me, wondering why this white lady is staring at them. "I'm his mom," I tell them. They blanched. (no one ever suspects I'm his mom. I get to hear all kinds of interesting tidbits that way.)

Fast forward to the present day. He still has tons of girl friends (as evidenced by this year's cake-fest), and has had three serious girlfriends since 8th grade. Well, as serious as it is at that age. He's kept his head about him, for the most part, and continues just to be a kid who's very sweet to young women. Which they find adorable, lord help me.

That's what Hungarian schools will do for a kid. Being handsome, sweet, smart, and living in a household of women doesn't hurt either. Lord help me.


So the boy fell hard via sugar crash last night. He said it felt like everything just slowed down. Like the Matrix but without the badassedness. You don't feed an athlete's body that many cakes with no repercussions.

Happy Birthday, Son. Still thankful for you.

Generation Text

I've probably mentioned Teen Demon's documented addiction to text messaging. When I say addiction, I mean in the literal sense. Last month the girl had 10,000 messages to her credit. Even the US Texting Champion only runs about 8,000 per month. On the rare occasions her phone malfunctions or runs out of juice, she displays classic signs of withdrawal: anxiety, shaking hands, irritability, inability to focus, clammy skin, the whole bit.

It was the facial tics and repetitive hand motions that made me consider an intervention.

She sleeps with the thing under her pillow, for 24/7 access. I'm pretty sure she and her friends will become the next Borg Collective, phones melded to skulls, unable to make a move without the input of the Collective. I once asked her if nighttime texts couldn't wait until morning. After all, if it's an emergency, they'll actually CALL you, right? Anything else probably doesn't warrant waking up at 3:37am. Her eyes about popped out of her head. "Yeah, right!!" she scoffed, clutching her phone possessively. "I wouldn't be able to sleep!"

But seriously, is it really crucial to see, "OMG im so bored. r u sleeping?" before you wake up in the morning? It's like when she was four and thought she'd miss something after going to bed.

Teen Demon is always on the go. Even before she left for college, a goodly portion of our relationship was predicated on texting. Now that she's at college, she's stepped it up to the next level. Things that would be discussed vis a vis in most mother-daughter relationships are presented to me on a handheld LCD screen. That tinny alert from the depths of my purse could be anything.

Like these:

So im thinking of getting a tattoo.

So i don't actually need to pass math to graduate.

Nose piercings r so cute.

Going to a hookah bar.

I'm getting my belly button pierced.

L8r, im in court now.

Court sucks!

College has so many parties!

If you just went by her text history, you'd wonder just what kind of wild, delinquent hooligan I've raised, here. Anyway, I was thinking recently I should be compiling these nuggets of history. Like a baby book, only more stressful. Those are among the more traumatic memorable communications, but hundreds more are forever lost from the memory stores of my brain.

Here's today's entry from the compendium of treasured communications with a loving daughter:

I'm thinking about getting a motorcycle license. It's only $125.

Like I don't have enough to worry about with two of the little devils off to college. My reply? "Tuition is a better investment. Especially since you live in the rain capital of the universe."

Welcome to text hell. I'll keep u posted, LOL. L8r!

In the Midst of the Sickery

Some of you have already been privy to my bitchery about the whole moms and sickness thing. Simply put, I'm of the belief that moms should be exempt from illness. Period. It should be outlawed. If I need to explain that to anyone, just think about how your mom (or grandma, whoever held the mom role in your household) took care of you when you were sick. Remember the soup and tea, the thermometers and orange juice and scrambled eggs? Right. Now think of who took care of your mom and kept the house clean when she was sick. Right. Moving on.

I'm home sick today. Yesterday too. Along with the Male Offspring. What started as a sore throat and some sinus nastiness has also progressed downward, so I can now enjoy hacking my lungs up along with my head feeling like it's been pumped full of pudding and my throat feeling like someone took a cheese grater to it.

And just to add to the fun, when is the last time we've had sunny days around the Puget Sound? I'd tell you, if I could remember, but I can't. The last 3 days though, which I've spent ensconced on my couch, wrapped in blankets? Sunny. Gorgeous. Gotta hand it to those Seattle weather gods, their timing is always spot on for a little Cowbell fuckery.

The boys were not happy with me. They expect some dog park action on sunny days, not for their mom to be buried under a blanket hacking and snorting snot around.

I do have to say that Teen Demon made banana and chocolate chip pancakes this morning, which the son and I greatly appreciated. Love that girl. Of course, the pancake maker is not expected to be the kitchen cleaner as well, which normally works out fine. Today, however, engulfed in this sickery, the ensuing chaos of the kitchen was enough to send me straight back to the couch. The son washed dishes though, in exchange for me messing around with our computer router to accomplish some crap or other he wanted to do with his video games. So really the whole mom sickness thing wasn't too awful today.


---------TIME OUT---------------

We interrupt this program with some breaking news from This Old Motherfucking House. The son has informed me, literally at just this moment, that we have leak under the kitchen sink. Fuck. Hold on ...

OK. I'm back. Not to worry folks, only a loose pipe fitting. Just my bastard of a house having a little chuckle, throwing some homeowner hijinx into the mix. Yeah, the fun just never stops does it? The son was good enough to sop up the water with the already ruined roll of paper towels, so it's all good.
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So anyway, last night was Dads' Night for the wrestling team. The dads escort their wrestler or yell leader out to the mat, photos are taken, dad and progeny are introduced to the teeming stands. Kind of a way to honor and thank the parents, which is cool. On moms night, the moms got flowers. Dad's night is also Senior Night, when they showcase the senior athletes and team captains, so it was a special night for Teen Demon, this being her culminating year of high school.

(Teen Demon is second from the right, bottom.)

Male Offspring was Teen Demon's stand-in dad last year, and he wanted to escort her again this year. Except he was sick. He was supposed to be wrestling as well, but that wasn't an option, given his inflamed throat and swollen glands. Anyway, we roused ourselves from couch and bed, showered and got ourselves to the gym on time.


This is them, making the walk out to the mat. Male Offspring was the only one of the "dads" to bring flowers, so that scored him points for the 2nd year in a row.

Isn't he such a good pseudo-dad? This picture makes me want to smile and cry at the same time.

How did they get this old so fast? He's just starting to edge out his big sister in height. (He's already passed the Bohemian.) She's going to be gone to college before I know it. I can't even think about how much I'll miss her. Anyway, the team won the match, sans Male Offspring's wrestling prowess, Teen Demon got her senior's medal and her flowers, and another Dads' Night came and went.

Assdad's Testosterone Surge

Where to begin? Today's thoughts range from assholes to playoffs to presidential candidates. Yes, actually I am thinking of separate situations.

I only caught the last portion of the 2-party presidential debates this evening. More about the debates in a minute. The son's wrestling tourney, for some insane reason, fell on the same day that Seahawks played - and WON - Game 1 in the Playoffs (hell yeah) Who schedules these things?! The Bohemian and I, along with some of the other dads (ha) stayed on the run between the gym and the hospitality room, where they had a TV set to the game. Male Offspring had 4 matches. We'd run to the gym to cheer him on, then run back to watch the Seahawks take another step toward the Superbowl. (No, RG, I don't have any illusions. But I sure would like to stomp the Packers next week.)

Something happened at the tourney today that really bothered me. Actually it pissed me the hell off. One of the son's teammates was wrestling. The guy is a good wrestler, but lost this particular match. His father was sitting behind me in the stands acting like a complete ass. I don't know the dad all that well, but from what I'd seen previously, I didn't like him. He's the type of guy who talks big shit about how his kid can kick the ass of any scared little pansy on the mat. Dude, seriously, no "I" in TEAM. I once heard him say this shit to Male Offspring:

Yeah, so [his son] was standing there, right, this was back in 7th grade man, and the other kids were looking scared. They thought he was in high school, man, I mean, he already had a beard coming in! 7th grade! So he's standing there, his arm's in a sling, he couldn't even wrestle, so the JV guy had to step up and wrestle in his place. The JV guy sucked, [his son] could've beaten that kid with only 1 arm! We were really pissed that the JV guy lost the damn match for him.

Meanwhile, his son (who is really a good kid, who isn't big or brawny, and who doesn't have the Beard of Sasquatch) was kind of digging his toes into the floor and looking down at the ground. The next time Assdad cornered Male Offspring for more testosterone tales, my son actually sent me a text message (without the guy even noticing) that read, "Help!" so I'd come rescue him.


Anyway, back to today. Assdad's kid is wrestling. Hard. He's a good wrestler. Assdad is cheering his kid on. But this guy is getting angry. I don't mean worked up in the excitement of the match, I mean actually angry. Not at the refs, not at the opponent -- he's getting angry at his son. Now, I was sitting directly behind the team area, so most of our wrestlers, including a large number of freshmen, were right in front of me. Assdad was directly behind me, and yelling loudly. His diatribe went something like this,

Hook that ankle! Aaaww, no! NO! Goddamn it, get your points! There ... get it ... get the ankl----he didn't get it! What're you doing? You're giving away your points!!!! What the hell are you doing out there?!

OK ... now stretch it out ... stretch!!!! Aaaw! How can you be so stupid? He's not ... I told him to ... goddamn it! OK ... now get it ... you little di-------- damn it!!!

This went on, for a very long 6 minutes. At one point I blatantly turned and gave him a very nasty look. He wasn't expecting it, and met my eyes, full on. There was no question he understood. He looked away, quickly, and toned down for about 30 seconds before he couldn't take it any more.

His son lost the match, only by a couple of points. At this point, a female family friend cuts in, laughing, trying to lighten the mood, "He tried! Come on, it was a tough match, you'd better be nice to him!" Assdad really went off then:

It's his own stupid fault!! How could he lose that? He didn't even try for his points, he just gave it away! Goddamn it. The dipshit!

What? Are you kidding me? I'm sorry, but when you call your own son a dipshit within earshot of his team members, you are truly an asshole. In fact, you're such an asshole, you could have your own bumper sticker. "Have You Called Your Kid a Dipshit Today?"

The Bohemian leaned over and said she hoped the kid wouldn't come over. But, of course, he did. Assdad couldn't even talk to him for a couple of minutes. Then he launches into an encouraging pep talk, with supporting thoughts like,

If you don't care about the points, why are you even going out there?

Don't ever, ever go out there if you don't really want to win.

Didn't I tell you to get that ankle? But you stepped wrong, you didn't listen.

Wasn't I the one who told you stretch it out when you're in that position? But you didn't do it. You didn't do it, and look what happened.

You handed your points over yourself. Why in the world would you do that?

There was a lot more, but that was the gist. At least he didn't call the kid a dipshit to his face. I can't imagine how his son felt. If I could hear all this, I know his teammates, at least the row in front of me, could hear it. And writing it here doesn't begin to convey the disgust and anger in this guy's voice.


Hey, Freakshow, newsflash for you: your son is going to feel the sting of your inexcusable behavior much longer than he'd feel the agony of defeat from one lousy match. And if this is the way you act every match, your son is probably going to feel queasy every time he remembers high school wrestling in the years to come. I'm pretty sure he felt bad enough about losing a match without any help from you.

You're there to support your son, not to relive your own failed glory days, assclown.

Your son took 3rd place out of 8 schools in his weight class -- his coach and his team was proud of him. You should be too. You should be proud of him whether he placed or not. Our school won the damned tournament, and your son had a part in that. How about giving him some credit for that?



I hate asshole sports parents. I was ashamed of how our school's fan group looked today. And we were the hosting school. Nice. I found Teen Demon afterward, and filled her in. She made sure the Yell Leaders found the kid and told him what a good job he did (It was a tough match, seriously). Even if your dad is a total assfreak, it's got to help at least a little when 5 hot Yell Leaders hunt you down to say you did a great job, right? Especially when they come bearing snacks.

Anyway. I know I do tend to wax bitchy about these things, far longer than may be interesting, but it upset me.

Anyway.

So, Male Offspring got 6th place out of 8 in his weight class. He did fantastic. A freshman, wrestling his first varsity high school tournament? Hell yeah. He pinned his first opponent in the first round, lost the other matches, but they were close, and he wrestled hard, and learned some things. Got a purple ribbon to hang in his room.


I'm done. Thoughts on the debates (the part I saw, anyway) tomorrow. Goodnight all.

Giving Thanks

I imagine most of you are basting your turkeys or sweetening your yams. Oh, get your minds out of the gutter, I'm talking about dinner preparations, you freaks. Such a naughty bunch.

I'm watching football.

We're actually going to do our Big Meal on Friday. (A small strike back at government-mandated holidays) Teen Demon and the Male Offspring were invited to their significant others' houses today, and the Bohemian's throat will have an extra day to heal before the gluttony. Plus, it's not easy to put on a big meal Thursday if you work. Braving the grocery store mobs Wednesday night after work? Screw that. I hate grocery shopping even under the best of circumstances.  Add mob mentality, and I'm out of there. And then there's cleaning the house; when do you fit that in? I'm actually surprised more people don't do it on Friday. Probably better for travel arrangements as well.

Teen Demon isn't crazy about doing the extended family thing with Boyfriend's family, but she's putting on her game face. A few of them try to corner her on the religion thing every once in a while.  She's not down with that. Male Offspring was excited because Girlfriend's stepdad was thrilled to have a guy to watch the games with. Various uncles will be arriving later in the day as well.

It was a bit heartbreaking, watching his face light up at the prospect of watching the game "with the guys". I gave him a hug, seeing that bit of Little Boy shining through his teenage face, and he said, "It's not like my own dad watches the games with me, but whatever". I told him his dad would if he were here, to which he just rolled his eyes. Well, at least his mom is a football freak, so we do watch the game together every week. But multiple games with the guys, shoot, I'm envious, and I don't even have a penis. Anyway, we're doing our big dinner tomorrow, and it works out well for the son. I hope he has fun.

We did a big breakfast this morning and watched the Lions v. the Packers. I was rooting for the Lions (sorry, Lex) but the Packers won.

The Bohemian is improving - she's eating, her lymph nodes are receding, her throat is looking more normal every day. She's still very fatigued, but her humor is intact, she's resting, and she's going to be fine. I'm very thankful for that, and I'm thankful she was able to come home.

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I'm always conflicted about this particular holiday. On the one hand, I should take time more often to really be thankful. Even when we feel our lives are shit, there are things to be thankful for. It's good to be reminded of that. Life gets in the way, things get busy, and I often think about what's gone wrong, my worries and stresses, where my life should be as compared to where it is. It's good to have a time where I'm reminded to consciously stop and reflect on those things for which I am thankful. That's a good thing.

On the other hand, the actual holiday on which this happens represents something very different for those people who were already here when the rest of our forebears immigrated. Being purposely thankful is good, and I need to do that more often, but celebrating this particular day and the history behind it ... I don't feel so good about that. I wish there were a different event or concept tied to celebrating thankfulness, rather than a skewed history, prettied up and neatly presented in textbooks and children's plays.

A construction paper pilgrim's hat, a feather paired with a few stripes of paint across a small face, people clap and smile as diminutive of pilgrims and Indians kindly help each other and give thanks together ... except that's not the whole story. It's very painful for many across this country to see this version so celebrated and honored.

And most of us ignore it and get on with our meal.

However, regardless of how one might personally feel about this holiday, the fact remains that this weekend is a four-day holiday, and we don't get to pick and choose when those come along. Grown children can return home. It's actually possible to take time out from life to visit and connect with friends and family. So we do. And yes, I'm thankful that we each have time off from our various jobs, schools, schedules, and are healthy and able to gather and be thankful for each other.

(And thus I rationalize, and get on with my meal.)

It would be nice if each worker could individually choose which 11 holidays to honor each year. Maybe there would be more actual honoring of history and people that truly have meaning for us, rather than just another day off work.

Anyway.

So tomorrow I get my domesticity on. Bring on the gluttony. To all of you turkey basters out there, enjoy your family, your friends, your turkeys, your football games, your connections over this weekend. I'm thankful for you guys, too.

Felled by a Bug

UPDATE BELOW

The Bohemian is sick.

I mean really sick. As in they had her hooked up to an IV and she had to get 2 shots and 3 prescriptions. She has mono AND "something similar to strep". And she's on the other side of the damn country. She can't eat and can barely talk. She doesn't even have a roommate this year, so she's just by herself in her room, now that they've released her. Some of you know that last year's roommate was Satan's daughter, the TV Addict, but right now, I'd be grateful for someone who could look over every once in a while and hold a mirror under her nose, maybe bring her a cup of friggin' tea.

One of the prescriptions is actually a steroid to bring down the swelling in her throat and tonsils, because apparently, they look something like this. Welcome to mono, folks. Yeah, horrid. No wonder the poor kid can barely swallow water.

I was researching same-day Fed-Ex deliveries at about $150 (WTF?) when my sensible friend suggested checking grocery store deliveries. So by noon tomorrow the daughter should be up to her ears in Gatorade, soups and broths, chocolate nutrition shakes, ibuprofen, pomegranate throat lozenges, Nighttime Airborne, some other shit that I don't remember, and a thermometer. Yeah, I sent my kid off to college without a thermometer, and we're just now realizing it.

Of course, the delivery man will not make her soup or bring her a cool washcloth or fix the lights or make sure she drinks enough or that she has enough blankets or that her fever isn't too high. What good is he, anyway?

Tomorrow morning I'm going to call to her dorm and see if the RA would check on her every once in a while. Although she says the RA for that building is pretty much invisible. -sigh-


You know it's bad when your normally sarcastic, almost-20-year-old "kid" cries before getting off the phone, while trying to squeak out "I miss you".

Fuck.

------------------------------------
Update: Wow this kid is really sick. (Did I tell you they called in the medical students to observe her on Tuesday because "we don't usually see cases this bad?")

First off, the Bohemian's delivery arrived, and she has hydrated herself and ingested some liquid nutrition in the form of Ensure, which is what we used give my Grandma when she was ill. Second, I have spoken a couple of times with the director of her residence hall, a saint among us named Ms. Willis, whom I secretly suspect is some version of fairy godmother. She arranged for the delivery to be taken straight to the Bohemian's room, and said she'll have the RA check on her every few hours. She told me, "Honey, I've got kids myself - if one of mine was that sick and far from home, I'd want somebody to do the same. You just call any time. Ask for Ms. Willis."

It's really hard to hear her sound so awful. I mean, of course she's been sick before, since she left home, even, but nothing like this since that flu swept through Eastern Europe from Russia, and all the schools and businesses were shut down for weeks. We all got it, the Bohemian and I the worst - I seriously wondered if I was going to die. Anyway, this is the sickest she's been since then. That kind of sick.

Background: You have to understand the Bohemian has deemed all Western medicine to be "evil chemicals", and none shall pass her lips. No form of the mildest pain reliever or cold medicine. Not even an ibuprofen for cramps. Instead, she drinks an herbal "women's tea". We have gone around about this for years.

The child will not even take vitamins. I once made her take a multi in front of me. Later I found the soggy mess in a crumpled napkin on top of her piano. She was 17 at the time, not 5. Also, any sort of sugared or "fake" drinks fall into the category of "evil chemicals". Neither do these pass her lips. Third, she particularly hates Gatorade, due to some of their advertising that she found offensive, and will not support them with her $$ even if she did like "fake drinks".


With that in mind, she has taken the IV, shots, and pills without complaint. Last night I explained that Gatorade and Ensure were on their way, along with various meds. Her response? "OK." Uh-oh.

Today, after it arrived, I explained how important it was for her to have the electrolytes and nutrition (she hasn't eaten since Tuesday), and asked for her solemn promise to JUST DRINK THE DAMN STUFF. Her response? A half-hearted "OK."

Later, she informed me she had taken Ibuprofen -- on her own, no suggestion from me -- in addition to her antibiotic dose. Holy Mother of God, my mother was right -- it is the end times.

Yeah. She's sick.

Fright Night

A few Halloweens ago, the Male Offspring and I took a little trip to Value Village, that Holy Grail of Halloween, on a quest for a cheap costume forged from the castaway clothing of others. With an old choir robe, a witch's hat, some reflective tape and some scissors, Male Offspring was magically transformed into a wizard.

Aww. Isn't he cute? He looks so little-boy here; it's amazing what a difference a couple of growth spurts can make.

Mystical symbols of wizardry, or reflective armament against idiotic drivers? Both! It's all about multifunctionality when it comes to cheap Halloween costumes.

These were the pumpkins from that year: Teen Demon's frog, my cat, Male Offspring's tree spirit, and the Bohemian's witchy symbology.

This was Teen Demon's costume. Even cheaper. She's a thrifty kid. The Bohemian put on a Nordic looking hat, a big knitted poncho, a scarf, and some funky boots and went as some type of ... I don't know, someone who lives in a cold place.

-------------------

So anyway, all of that is backstory for today's subject, which stems from that fateful trip to Value Village with the Male Offspring. We were commending ourselves for keeping down the cost of costumery, when Male Offspring stumbled across the perfect Halloween item.

It was a rat. A giant, rubber devil-rat, long yellow fangs bared in a silent shriek of rage, revealing the angry scarlet portal to his despicable rat gullet. A monster rat. The kind of rat that would come flying across the room at you in a Stephen King novel, the kind of lurid beast that would just as soon rip your throat out as skitter through city sewers with his normal-rat brethren.

This was the Beelzebub of the rodent world.

The son and I cooked up a plan. The rat would come home with us, concealed until Halloween night, when he would make his appearance. He would appear on the back of the toilet, which, in that house, was tucked back in a recessed corner of the bathroom. Nature eventually calls. The girls were guaranteed to find him at some point.

Except they didn't, because we forgot to bring the archfiend out from his lair under my bed, by the time the fated night rolled around.

We were so disappointed! I couldn't believe we forgot. No matter; we could wait. The hell-rodent would remain our little secret for the next year.

Mostly he gathered dust, but not too much - there was a dust-ruffle around his lair, after all. Every once in a while though, Male Offspring or I would stealthily take him out. I'd hide him in the son's bed, or he'd put him in my bathroom sink and turn my dimmer way down. It scared the bejeezuz out of us every time. And each time the victim would silently plot revenge, biding time until the rat's next appearance.

We never have remembered to put him out on Halloween for the girls. He's become our own private fright night. Sometimes half a year goes by with no sign of the rat, then one night, I'll pull back my covers, unsuspecting, to discover its hideous. foul visage glaring up at me from my bed. Every time it makes me jump and scream like a girl. And curse. Last night I let loose a string of vilification scaring even the dogs, upon finding this in my bed:












wait for it....

BOO!

The son is so going to pay.

Tonka: Built for Boyhood!

I've got toys on my mind. No, not toys for grown-up ladies, you naughty freaks. Toys for kids. Specifically, girl toys and boy toys.

Gender-specific toys.

Our favorite Big Ass Belle recently posted about "girl toys" by PLAYSKOOL. Meaning, of course, pink and flowery toys that revolve around, what else?

Housework!

Lynette's Girl Toys post brought to mind a Tonka commercial I saw recently, advertising their toys which are "built for boyhood". Yep, Tonka is Celebrating 60 Years of Boyhood! It turns out Hasbro is the parent company of both Tonka and PLAYSKOOL.

That's right, PLAYSKOOL, of Rose Petal fame, and Tonka, built for boyhood, wedded together to helpfully model gender-appropriate play. How precious. The commercials for PLAYSKOOL's Rose Petal Cottage include this sugary sweet melody:

I love when my laundry gets so clean,
Taking care of my home is a dream, dream, dream!
In Rose Petal Cottage, my home,
A place of my very own!
So "taking care of my home" is the dream, dream, dream PLAYSKOOL wants for Teen Demon and the Bohemian? Because they're girls? I'm sorry, but washing socks and mopping crusty bits off the floor isn't exactly what I dreamed of for them while watching them sleep in their cribs.

It's sure as hell not what they're dreaming of for themselves. I know this because of the dirty socks and crusty bits on their floors.  No interest.  They could a Rose Petal attitude adjustment, come to think of it ...

At Hasbro.com, we learn that the Rose Petal Cottage

empowers preschool girls to use their imagination inside and around their very own play space, featuring everything they need to role-play alone or with friends.

From baking muffins to washing clothes to caring for their dolls, girls now have a place where they can set their imaginations free.

"Everything" a girl needs to set her imagination free? Is there no one in their marketing department without a penis? See, this is what happens when there's no diversity in hiring, people.  Maybe a toy kitchen is one thing to set imagination free.  And guess what, Tonka, my son loved the hell out of his toy kitchen.


And Tonka. Here's what their current commercial has to say about our future heads of households:

Boys! What can you say? They're just built different.
And now ... they can play their way!
It's built around what he does naturally. It's a shape sorter - or not!
Then, it helps him learn to walk. And chase!
Then [it's] his own sweet ride - from baby to big boy. All in one toy.
Let's face it; boys are built different.
And Tonka's got the blueprint.

Built different?  (Also, differently*, Tonka.  Adverb.)

So ... boys "naturally" exercise their minds and bodies by sorting shapes, running and chasing, while girls need nothing more than a pink playhouse to serve as "an entire world where your little girl can play, discover and explore."

Entire world?

Trouble with that is, the world they want my little girl to discover and explore is comprised of only a laundry room, nursery and kitchen. Probably she'll be expected to clean up after Tonka-boy, since he's shown tracking mud all through the house in his commercial, while mom smiles indulgently.



I find this purposeful gender-based marketing very disturbing. The unspoken gender expectations are ingrained so deeply within our society, it's virtually impossible to avoid them. So when toy companies purposefully SAY things like "boys are built different" and "taking care of my home is a dream, dream, dream", it leaves no doubt in kids' minds as to what's expected of them. What is "normal".

When toy companies purposely perpetuate gender roles, that pisses me off, because they're making my job harder as a parent.

If my little boy believes certain activities are more suited for him, likewise he will develop the belief that other activities and expectations are more suited for the girls and women in his life. Not only will he feel comfortable playing with trucks or light sabers, he'll also feel comfortable expecting the girls in his life not to do those things.

Tonka has told him that trucks are "built for boys". If I do nothing to balance the messages Tonka and PLAYSKOOL are sending him, he may one day feel comfortable with his mother, sisters, or wife in their Rose Petal kitchens, making that sandwich for him while he's out in the living room watching the game.

Um, no.

Male Offspring knows that females are all about watching the game. He would no sooner expect me to hit the kitchen before half-time than he would expect me to sprout wings and fly.



So, what about little Suzy, careening her Tonka truck around the living room? What about the little boy who loves playhouse tea parties and hates mud? How do they feel after seeing these commercials? Especially little Johnny. Society can deal with a tomboy, but a girlieman? Not so much. Chances are, Johnny will soon learn to keep that shit under wraps and play with the damn truck. At least when people are watching.

Both of them are getting a clear message about what it means to be a "normal" girl or boy.



My kids had gender-specific toys, sure.

Teen Demon was a wild hellion in her day. She loved her Little Tykes kitchen, and her pink doll stroller -- pink is still her favorite color -- and the girl bakes like, well, a demon. But, she also rode her Tonka truck like demolition derby time. She personally brought out my appreciation for that whole Tonka Tough thing, before Male Offspring ever came on the scene. She had a toy tool belt that she wore everywhere. With pink hiking boots. She didn't take any guff from little boys.

Yes, Male Offspring loved him some trucks and 'dozers. Tonka would've loved to have his rough-and-tumble boy-behind in their commercials. He was all about the boy toys. They probably would've cut scene, though, when he came clacking onto the set in his sisters' dress up clothes, sporting a pink tutu, white gloves and pearls with a purple straw hat. He adored the pastel pink Little Tykes Cottage. Especially talking on the toy phone, which should've given me some warning as to the boy's future cell phone addiction.

So yeah, my kids loved their girl toys and boy toys. Not like you can really avoid it. Nevertheless, according to Tonka & PLAYSKOOL, my kids were a bit confused as as to proper play for their respective genders.




Well, fear not - no more fretting over ambiguous gender behavior! Tonka, in order to help you navigate the gender divide, has helpfully provided Parenting Advice for Boys.

(Hey, Tonka, I'm pretty sure you meant to give parenting advice to parents of boys, not the little tykes themselves, right? How much do you pay your editor?)
Anyway, if your little darling sports a penis, don't worry, Mom, help is on the way:

Little boys can seem like alien creatures, especially to Moms who were raised as little girls! So to help you speak "boy language," here are some tips from Lawrence Cohen, PhD, Playskool Advisor and author of Playful Parenting.

Heavens! How did I ever manage to raise Male Offspring without learning to speak "boy language"? No worries - Doc Lawrence has tips to help clueless moms decipher their little boys:

(Yes, this shit is actually up at the Tonka site )

9-18 months: During this stage, your son will be learning all about himself, including what it means to be a boy... you can keep the emotional connection going by having your own truck that rolls alongside his (or sometimes gently crashes into his!).

My own truck? Are you sure, Lawrence, because ... I'm a girl. I'm "built different".

2-3 yrs: This is also the stage where "boy humor" begins; this type of humor--filled with jokes about body parts and bodily functions ... seems to be a product of some combination of boy biology and boy social training.

So fart jokes come from "boy biology"? What does that even mean? Is there a gene for fart jokes?

3-5 yrs: Some mothers try to eliminate every expression of aggression from boys’ play, but that doesn’t work--and besides, if we got rid of all aggressive stories, we’d have to exclude stories from Shakespeare, the Bible, and even history books!

The Bible? How'd that get slipped into a toy site?

And get this:

All Ages & Stages: Recognize that your son is absorbing all sorts of information from TV and movies, including many messages about what is expected from boys and men. The media -- and our own expectations -- can give boys the wrong idea that there is only one very narrow definition of masculinity.

No shit, Lawrence! Media like ... Tonka commercials and this website, asshat! How did they not catch that?

I call bullshit, Tonka. This guy should not be giving parenting advice. You should not be paying him.


So ...

---What if ... all types of play were presented as a choice for all kids? Without the frilly pink or tough blue packaging.

---What if nobody thought a thing about Johnny having tea party with his teddy bears, or playing with playhouse dolls?

---What if Suzy could play Pop Warner football or collect model cars instead of Barbies ... without being called a tomboy, without folks assuring her mom she'll "grow out of it"?

---Maybe then, Johnny grows up to be a sous chef in some fancyass restaurant. Or an awesome stay at home dad who knows how to fix a furnace and connect with his kids. Maybe Suzy fixes cars or runs a corporation.

---And maybe, if that were the case, taking care of a home might truly be seen as an option for both genders, not an expectation for one. In which case, it would probably be valued a lot more than it is now. Then role models - and advertising - for kids would be a whole lot different.

Maybe then Suzy feels OK being a cheerleader ...

... and a football player.

And maybe her brother grows up thinking his sister is pretty cool, and not necessarily girlie ...

...because he remembers

carrying that cheerleader's

football pads.

Yes, as a matter of fact, that was a shameless excuse to post cute pics of Teen Demon and Male Offspring. But there is a related point:

Teen Demon recently found out that her school no longer allows male cheerleaders. What? Apparently, there used to be guys on the football/basketball cheer squad. (Teen Demon cheers for wrestling - because the football/b'ball squad is a bunch of Barbie-bitches. According to her.) But the advisor - an adult - decided she didn't want guys on the squad about three years back.

What's sad is Teen Demon actually knows a couple of guys who would like to cheer. And, she said, it would actually make a better cheer squad, on account of the awesome stunts they'd be able to do with guys in the mix.

Male Offspring was in the room during this conversation, and he didn't snicker or make faces. What he said was, "That sucks. If girls can do wrestling and football, it's not fair that guys can't cheer. That's just dumb."

No, son, it's not fair, and it is dumb. I'm glad the kids were bothered by this, rather than thinking "cheerleading's for girls". If it were up to Hasbro, however, that would've been a different conversation.

And that's what's pissing me off about these commercials.

Athletic Supporter

I'm sorry, but there's something wrong when you're sitting among a group of parents at a freshman football game, at 3:30 in the afternoon, and somebody reeks of alcohol.

When it's coming out of your pores? Yeah, we can smell you.

Dude, show some class; stay home. Seriously. You're just embarrassing your kid.

-----------------------

Because I have wise blogfriends who call me on my shit, I am adding the following addendum regarding Mr. MadDog: at least the guy showed up. And maybe his kid was just glad to have him there. More than I can say for a lot of parents ...

Where the Hell is My Palm Pilot?

OK, things are seriously out of control. As if my old house wasn't enough, my schedule is kicking my ass:

Last Thursday:
--Work
--5:30, meeting w/ school district.
--7pm, Curriculum Night. Collect 5 extra credit points for Male Offspring.
--9:45, talk to another parent about fucked up issue w/ her daughter.
--Home @ 11pm
--Eat pumpkin pie for dinner.

Weekend: Heat/Plumbing Insanity. Stinkfest.

Monday:
--Work until 7pm. Worship Teen Demon for picking her brother up from football.
--7pm, Shop with Teen Demon for upcoming college visit. (clothes that aren't jeans.)
--8pm, go into official "Mall Rage".
--Home @ 9:30
--Cook dinner

Tuesday:
--Work
--6:30, Pick up Male Offspring from football
--7pm, IB & class rank meeting at school.
--Home @ 9:45
--Cook dinner

Wednesday:
--Work
--4pm, meet w/ principal of local middle school for district group.
--5:30pm, back to work.
--6:15, pick up Male Offspring from football.
--7pm, Math Night at high school ... but I can't go as I'm already attending:
--7pm, Community meeting with Diversity Commission and local law enforcement,
--Home @ 11pm
--Eat a damned piece of pumpkin pie for dinner

Thursday:.
--4:30am (Yes, I friggin' said A.M.) Take Teen Demon to airport, beat morning rush hour.
--Work
--4:30pm, FOOTBALL GAME, Male Offspring
--Home @ who-the-fuck-knows-what-time
--Go under house and wrap water heater with special water heater blanket. Curse.
--Microwave a frozen burrito
--Beer


Friday:
--Work
--HOME @ NORMAL TIME!
--Advertise for a wife.
--Pick up dog shit in yard. Curse at all the rain we've had.

--Go back to Lowes to buy sheet metal, special screws, and other supplies to fix furnace duct.

--Leave supplies in garage. Curse at hole in furnace duct.

--Look at dishes piled up due to drain problems and crazyass schedule.

--"Build fire" with fake log.

--Curse at 98% of the heat going straight up the old chimney.

--Balance dangers of smoke against pleasures of heat: consider closing flue.

--Uncork wine.

--Collapse.

Yeah, so basically my house is a mess again, and my ass is fast approaching the size of Delaware, due to late night dinners and mass amounts of pumpkin pie being consumed.

I Dreamed the Whole House Was Clean...

OK, so the last two weeks have been insane, schedule-wise. My house is out of control. I gave up on dishes a week ago. I mean literally gave up. It was a relief, because I knew I'd have no time to do them in the foreseeable future. Giving up just got rid of that pesky guilt thing. We had used every single piece of silverware in the house. We even went through most of the utensils and big knives. You ever try to spread butter with a cleaver?

Is four days of wearing the same pants really crossing the line? Not this week. Spray some Febreeze and those throw those babies in the dryer for a few minutes. Oh please, like you've never done it.

When the dog hair on the floor has gathered itself up into balls the size of small pets in their own right, things have turned a corner. No, those aren't guinea pigs skittering about on the stairs, I just need to sweep, people.

Grocery shopping? Right. Let me introduce you to a little Northwest phenomenon called Taco Del Mar. Being vegetarians, we don't have many options for fast cheap food you don't have to cook yourself. If you eliminate fried food on top of that, the pickins get real slim. Yes, there's China First, but it's not really that cheap since their dishes don't actually include the rice. I mean really, what kind of cheap stunt is that? Throw in a few spring rolls, and before you know it, you're a big spender. Subway? Please, those guys have no idea how to make a vegetarian sandwich. Take away the meat, and they're clueless. They look at you blankly, throw on a couple of extra tomato slices, and call it a day. Quiznos is actually okay, but they're not right around the corner.

Taco Del Mar has real burritos, bigass mission-style burritos, not that nastyass anemic Taco Bell shit. They even make a vegetarian burrito that consists of more than iceberg lettuce and a few sorry shreds of cheese. And they have frequent buyer cards. Buy yourself 10 of those bad boys, and bam, your next burrito is free. Easy.

So yeah, things have kind of slipped through the cracks at the old homestead.

You know it's bad when your teenage daughter calls as you're leaving work, and says don't worry about dinner, she's got it. The menu? Baked fish, broccoli, and rice. And she's buying the fixins with her own hard earned cash. Yeah. Guess her body finally rebelled against those tasty black bean burritos (which are actually quite healthy) and frozen pizza. Hey, I did juice up the pizza with our own mushrooms and peppers and stuff, but I guess at the end of the day, there's just no hiding the fact that it's Red Baron.

Anyway, we got the dishes washed over the weekend. The kitchen looks normal again. I haven't tackled the fur doglets yet. Baby steps. It took nearly three weeks for it get this way; it's not going to clean itself overnight.

Time to hit the sack. The infomercials are starting. And yes, as a matter of fact, those are Birkenstocks I'm wearing with my striped knee socks. I'm not going Pacific Northwest on you, people; dog hair matted all over the bottom of one's socks is just nasty.

Yes, Virginia, People Do Still Say That Shit.

So here's what happened to my son in history class the other day. First off, preface this with the fact that my son is the only Black student in all of his IB* classes -- a fact he noticed the first day of school.

(*IB is the International Baccalaureate program -- a worldwide honors program. The US is pretty new to it. The number of US schools offering it is limited, but growing. I chose this particular district specifically for IB, as it was the closest I could get to the education the kids had been getting in Hungary. Students of color are underrepresented in IB, African American kids in particular.)

Okay, so Male Offspring is taking Non-Western IB History this year. (the non-Western part is something, at least.) Last Thursday, the teacher is giving the lesson about how human life originated in Africa, the migration of the peoples, yada-yada. One young lady raises her hand and says it makes sense that life would've begun there, as it's

warmer there, and stuff can probably grow better than in a cold place.

OK, she's getting her reasoning skills on. She continues with,

Plus, Black people have the really broad foreheads and noses. They look like monkeys, so it makes sense that they would've come first, since they're the ones closer to monkeys.

Oh, yes, she did.

And every child in that classroom turned to look at my son.

Because that's what happens when you are the only person of color in the classroom. At that moment, my son was not "Male Offspring", he was "the Black kid in class".

My son could not tell me what the teacher said in response. He said he was shocked, everyone was staring at him. He said the teacher looked stunned and didn't really know what to do. She did say something to the girl, but he couldn't tell me what.

He said all he could hear was noise in his ears.


----------------------------------------

Now, I know there are a lot of folks living under the shiny illusion that this shit doesn't happen any more. People invariably respond with, "That's terrible! It's 2007!" Well, it happened in my kid's classroom last Thursday. If you're surprised by that, either your kid is White, or you don't live in this country.

I met with his teacher. Like you all didn't see that coming. A friend who works me in the parent group and who knows Male Offspring came with me.

We thought she was a student. No joke, people. This is her second year of teaching. She graduated from this very high school in 2001. She was like, soooo totally young! I had some assumptions and biases of my own, my first thought (besides "Holy shit, she's not a student?!) being "Oh, this little girl is not going to be able to handle this situation." I had to check myself, however, as we talked.

I had an idea about how to address what happened -- more about that in a minute -- but I wasn't sure how that was going to go. I can imagine if I were a teacher in her position, I might be nervous about meeting the parent. I might feel defensive or embarrassed. So I thought maybe she'd see any suggestions on my part as a judgement, as overstepping into her area.

She didn't.

I tried to get across how that felt for my son, the history behind that remark, the fact that he had no allies in that classroom who understood. Yes, other kids were shocked, thought it was wrong, but no one really understood. And no one spoke up.

I asked how she had initially responded to the young lady in question, and actually I think she did pretty well for being a new teacher caught off guard with such a loaded comment. Better than certain veteran teachers I know, that's for damn sure. Also, I should've said earlier that she did apologize to my son after class, and admitted to him that she hadn't quite known what to do.

I told her that SHE was my son's ally in that classroom, she has to be that for him, because every kid looked to her for direction on how that situation was going to go down. I told her I did not hold her accountable for what comes out of a student's mouth, but I do hold her accountable for addressing it. I fully expect her to have my son's back in that classroom.

I thought Miss Thang would get defensive or make excuses or gush about how she toootally understood. She didn't. Girl may be young, but she's sharp; I'll give her that. She looked me in the eye and said "Okay. That's my position, then." All right. She also said, "Obviously this student has missed some things we've been talking about in class. That says to me it's time to reteach."

It's time to reteach. Go on, girl.

I went into the meeting with 3 objectives:
1) I wanted the student to know her remark was inappropriate and hurtful, and I wanted her to get the correct information so she hopefully won't be spouting that shit again.
2) I wanted the other kids in the class to get the correct info, and to have an example of how to address comments like that.
3) Most important, I wanted my son to come away from this feeling empowered, not humiliated. I wanted him to know that he does not have to accept those statements, and I wanted his expectation to be that the adults in life will address that shit immediately.

Anyway, Miss Thang was on board with all of it, she wanted to learn how to be prepared for the next time. Which was a nice change. I told her my idea:

I wanted his class to see Race: the Power of an Illusion, a three-part PBS documentary.

Part I involves a high school science class in which the students do DNA swabs and blood pricks, then type their DNA. Before they get the results, they form hypotheses about whom they believe they'll be most closely linked to genetically.

Not surprisingly, they predict along racial/ethnic lines; the Black kids believe they will be the closest, genetically speaking, to other Black kids, the White kids predict they will be most like other Caucasian kids. Ditto for the Asian and Latino kids.

The results, of course, come back the opposite of what they'd thought: one African American young man finds he is genetically most similar to a blond, Russian classmate. A Caucasian student finds that in addition to having a 100% match with someone in the Balkans (which he expected, given his family history), he is also a 100% match for an African individual, which he did not expect. Another White student is most similar to an Asian girl in his class.

The film goes on to talk about race being a social construct, and the history behind that. It talks about the two migrations of people -- the first dying out, the second being modern humans. ALL of us. It covers how we all came about on the same timeline, that there are no separate species of humans, no lines from an earlier time, no group that is more/less advanced, and how any visual differences are a result of geographic adaptations after migration, not from genetic coding.

In other words, none of us are closer to monkeys than any of the rest of us.

Basically, it breaks it down in scientific terms that race has no biological basis; no gene, or group of genes, is common to a particular race. Race cannot be identified genetically. I was surprised to learn that there is twice the genetic variation between two penguins -- which, to my eye, look identical -- as there is between any two humans.




But ... past science did make a false connection between genes and race and intelligence, past science was used to purposefully construct the social aspects of race. In fact, the film covers how the Nazis actually had used US racial research to form their bullshit theories.

We all know how that turned out.

Here's the thing:

If a particular group of people can be shown, according to "scientific evidence", to be savage, to be less intelligent, less capable of self-governance -- closer to animals than your own group -- how much easier to justify taking their land and confining them to reservations? How much easier to rationalize enslaving those who are less than human? How much easier to convince ourselves that beating, lynching those who are "closer to monkeys" is necessary to keep them in line? That selling them as property is okay? How much easier is it to send those who are "inferior" to concentration camps? How much easier to justify Jim Crow laws, miscegenation laws, if some folks are shown to be closer to animals than others?

Pretty damned easy, according to history.



So the monkey comment, besides being incorrect and ignorant, has a whole shitload of history attached to it, even still, today. If you think the monkey comment was no big deal, that particular bit of history most likely does not apply to you and yours.

My son will remember that little girl opening her mouth and ignorance falling out, he will remember every eye in that room turning to him. He'll remember hearing nothing but white noise roaring in his ears while the teacher struggled to address it, struggled to find something to say to this girl.

Something that wouldn't humiliate her too much.

He will remember that time in 9th grade history class when his classmate said Black people look like monkeys. He'll remember how that felt. And he will be fully aware of the history behind that belief, enabling it to still be voiced in 2007.  He will also remember he has a voice.


-------------------------------------
Afterward: (ha, look at me trying to play author and shit.)Miss Thang showed the film to all her classes. She had the kids write their ideas of race before the film. Afterwards they wrote how the film did or did not affect their views. She said it went well, that she was encouraged by some of the kids' papers.

She said she'd like to incorporate that film into her classes every year. She's going to bring it up to the science teachers, and try to put something together with them for later in the year.

And for the record, no, that is not the usual response.

I was impressed with Miss Thang, and yes, I checked myself on my own assumptions that I'd formed upon seeing her bouncy blonde ponytail and wide-eyed. perky smile. I learned a lesson too.

So, my son will not forget this experience, it will leave its mark; but he will also remember that the adults in his life dealt with that shit, and he'll be more prepared next time. He'll remember that his class learned that shit is not okay and not correct. And hopefully, he'll remember that a little change was made in his school as a result of addressing that ignorant remark.

Sing It, Baby

OK, so you've all heard of the whole Six Degrees of Separation theory, right? I just found out I am a mere two degrees from Barack Obama. Or at least I will be by September 28th.

Here's my logic: Senator Obama will be delivering the convocation address at Howard University's 140th opening convocations. The Howard University choir will be singing at this event. The eldest daughter is a sophomore at the University and a member of the Howard choir. The choir will (as I understand it, don't quote me on this part) be singing a medley of different songs, in which there are a couple of short solo parts. Exciting stuff. Hold onto your panties, people, it gets better.

Guess who has a solo part? Oh yeah, baby, that's right! That would be the Offspring, aka the Radical Bohemian, getting her tunes on. Go girl! I'm thinking this should qualify her for a record deal more than those pop tarts on American Idol, right? She's so excited! She's got the Big Anti-War Protest going on this weekend, then hanging with Barack.

It's pretty much first name basis now with me and Barack.

The daughter says they're more like soloettes, not like a full piece. Whatever. I don't care if it's one note, she's singing. I say that's a mere two degrees of separation between me and the Senator. And just one degree for the Radical Bohemian, she's the one with the pipes.

Barack Obama is practically family, y'all.

Jam the Knee at the Jamboree

In Which the Offspring Jams the Wipeout Knee and
Cowbell Waxes Splenetic on Deranged Suburban Sports Parents

Today the Male Offspring put on the pads, the cup (as opposed to the glass), and all other requisite equipment to keep parts intact on the field, and headed to the Freshman Jamboree.

So the son's first good play, he lands right on the Wipeout Knee. The skin has grown back, so the gore has morphed into a scar, but the joint is still a bit tender. The boy won't even going to make it to the first game at this rate.

Check out the sequence shots on the new camera.*

See the guy in the tight purple spandex to the far left, waiting for the ball? That's my baby:

Hike!

Ready to catch
(the ball is right in front of the guy in red, coming toward the son, left)

Bam! Clean catch.

Take off!

"You're so going down, dude"

And ... they're on him.
He got first down, though. Go, baby!

Some of these sports parents, though ... whew! It's wild. You overhear all kinds of shit at these games. I mean, don't get me wrong, I am all about my kids' sports -- I love seeing them get out there and do something they love, and it's fun.

But damn, people, they're kids, it's freshman year -- this is not the friggin' NFL.

These guys go on about why the coach doesn't know his ass from a hole in the ground, how things were different when they played, how good they were when they coached pee-wee ball.

And don't let a kid miss a pass or a block.

Last year, 8th grade season, a group of the dads were talking, and one of them started complaining about some kid the coach put in. "Coach doesn't know what the hell he's doing! why the hell did he put _________ in? That kid's a pansy, what's he doing in there? He expects to win like that?"

Yeah. 8th grade. WTF, people? How are they supposed to learn to play if you never put them in? And by the way, your star quarterback son? He still shits brown like everyone else, and guess what, he's dropped the ball a time or two, and the boy can't play by himself.

There's no "I" in team, asshole. What kind of coach did you have?

Some of these guys are living their glory days through their sons, while they sit behind a desk or drive a forklift all day. I tell you what dude, when you're wearing an NFL uniform, you can talk shit and I'll listen. Until then, let the kids play and the coaches coach. It's not your clipboard, jerkoff.

Anyway.

My kid had fun today. And yes, as a matter of fact, he did kick ass, but either way, it's about putting kids in and watching young men develop.

Way to go, baby.

* I had planned to do a sort of Adoption Announcement post for the new camera, to balance mourning the death of Dear Camera, but varied and sundry shit began hitting various fans about that time, and well ... I just didn't.