What has happened to “pled”? You know, pled, as in, “The suspect pled guilty to the charges.” Nowadays, the suspect “pleaded” guilty. Pleaded! It feels stupid just to write it! Since when did pled become pleaded? Sounds like something a sheep would do.
As far as that goes, when did suspects quit pleading guilty at all? Even when they did it they don’t plead guilty anymore. They’re all claiming innocent regardless of eyewitnesses, prior confessions, fingerprints, and DNA! But I digress.
Pleaded! Really!
And what about helping verbs in the news? Where have they gone? Every night we’re assaulted with at least one half-baked grammatically feeble headline sort of faux sentence. To wit: “Families asking tough questions as the hillside deteriorates.” Or, “Hot weather creating problems for the elderly.”
No! Families ARE asking tough questions, and hot weather IS creating problems! Oh! I see. We’re avoiding the passive voice by speaking and writing in fragments! Wonderful. Why not make it active: Families ASKED tough questions. Hot weather CREATED problems.
But everything is present tense now, too. Have you noticed? “In 1956 he marries his high school sweetheart.” How can he do that? How can a person in 2010 marry in 1956? I say he can’t! Either he married her then, he marries her NOW, or he will marry her in the future. Conjugate, damn it!
And please, commas within the quotation marks! Oh. My. Gosh! Even Alex Trebek puts his commas outside the quotation marks now! Nothing is secure! Nothing is sacred. If Alex is doing it, who’s next? The Queen?
Apostrophes are up for grabs. Any old “s” can claim an apostrophe. “On Sale Today! Shoe’s for Men, Women, and Kid’s!” Usage lesson’s of the past fall by the wayside as student’s mind’s retain like sieve’s.
It’s and its are virtually one and the same. People do not know the difference. Write it however you like! Its raining! Put everything in it’s place! No one notices! No one cares!
You’re and your? Might as well throw in yore! I got a card from a student this year, “Dear Mrs. Plath, thank’s for everything. Your the best!” God love her.
Next, we will have the blurring of there, their, and they’re. Here it comes! All you stodgy old grammarians get out of the way! There new rules are there way of saying their is no more time for Standard English!
This is unacceptable license with the language. And it’s rampant! Don’t people have dictionaries any more? Or, more to the point, don’t they ever use them?
I use mine. In fact, to prove my point, I’m going to use it right now, and look up “pled.” Ah, here it is, “pled (pled), colloquial or dialectal past tense of plead.”
WHAT?!! “Colloquial or dialectal?”
First, I thought it was dialectical---and besides that, how dare they? What are they implying? That I am quaint?
Well of course, that’s the easy way, isn’t it? Out with old, the correct, and the proper. Fine.
Put me on trial, and what’s the case against me?
• In 1966 she buys a Webster’s New World Dictionary.
• Dictionaries creating new usages for careless speakers and writers.
• She pled not guilty to grammar snobbery.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
From Heaven to Hell on American Airlines
I'll probably burn in hell for this. I'm hiding from Elizabeth. She doesn't deserve it, but I need a break.
Face it. She's demanding. I know she can't help it, but dang! How many times can I review her flight plan with her?
Elizabeth has Apert's Syndrome. It's a rare condition with a constellation of unfortunate physical and mental symptoms. First, and most notable, her head is misshapen.
Remember that old cartoon where the witch is sitting in front of the mirror in the haberdashery? She's trying on pointy hats for Halloween. The sales girl standing above her delicately places a hat pin in the topmost point of the hat. "Ouch!" says the witch.
That would be Elizabeth. When she wears her pilled-up red felt cowboy hat with the sequins glued around the brim, her head looks pretty normal. But when the hat flies off in a gust of wind, it reveals that her peaked head fills the uppermost regions of the hat. Straggly wisps of oily hair do little to disguise the fact.
Her face is distorted too. Poor Elizabeth! She's our Quazimoto. Porcine nose almost always free flowing. Two middle fingers on both hands are fused into one finger. One hairy knuckle, one fingernail.
Her squat little body, or should I say fuselage, is always cloaked in her gray American Airlines jacket.
Elizabeth comes to me on the quad every day now. Every brunch. Every lunch. She finds me to review her flight plan. It goes like this: First she stands in front of me and proudly taps the AA logo with the oversized middle finger of her right hand. "Do you know what this stands for?"
I used to say, "American Airlines" and it pleased her. She smiled at me and we talked about how the turbulence caught her on her flight to Miami. She had to make an emergency landing in Houston where they cleared the debris from her engines and she was on her way in no time!
Day after day we replayed the scenario: American Airlines; Miami; turbulence, debris. I asked her to be sure: "Elizabeth, are you the pilot, or the airplane?" "I'm the airplane! I'm a 747! I was on the runway with those other planes and they couldn't beat me. I'm the fastest one! I have red, white, and blue painted all over my fuselage!"
"Are you the stewardess?" she asked, eyeing me as though dubious of my qualifications. "No, I'm Air Traffic Control," I said.
The bell rang and with that she wanted clearance for take off. "747, cleared for takeoff!"
"Roger!" and off she flew to her classroom, arms atilt and backpack flapping.
She brought me two pieces of construction paper the next day. One gray and shaped like a submarine with three stripes running the length in red, white, and blue pastel chalk. The other is the AA logo, red and blue on white paper.
On about the 200th day she approached me and tapped the AA logo I became perverse. "What does this stand for?" she said.
"Alcoholics Anonymous?" "No."
"Aardvarks and Apples?" "No."
"Artichokes and Anchovies?" "No!"
I could have gone on and she sensed it. "American Airlines!" she declared with a little pat of her foot.
Students scuffled in the cafeteria one day. Elizabeth said she was taking on fuel so she didn't see everything. But she dwelled on it. She worked it into the routine for weeks. Did I see what happened? Neither did she. She was taking on fuel when all of a sudden, pow! "So I just took off!"
Mucus forms a shiny sheet between her nose and upper lip. I began carrying tissues for this reason. Now when I hand one to her, she smears and smears, only to have it begin again.
One of our campus supervisors observed this ritual day after day. She called me on the walkie talkie from across the quad. "You're going straight to heaven, you know."
"Do you think so?"
"Oh yeah, for all these conversations, you've got a straight shot!"
But today, behaving like the adolescents I serve, I am hiding from Elizabeth. I'd just like to complete my lunch supervision without the pre-flight itinerary.
It's not that hard to elude her. Believe me, I know her routine. So I move from my usual, highly visible spot, just to the left near a cinder block pillar supporting the overhang.
She comes out of the cafeteria at 12:40pm and lands exactly where we usually stand. Not seeing me, she's flustered. She begins a systematic scan of the area, turning quadrant by quadrant. When it's time to scan in my direction, I step behind the pillar. Like a light house beacon she turns again. With that, I step into the cafeteria and relax. She won't look in here. She's already been here. We always talk outside.
"Mrs. Plath!" A group of students beckons me and I'm off to lighthearted conversation about Senior Ball. Am I going? Will I dance? So much normal fun!
Then, from the corner of my eye, I can see her, taxiing closer. She found me. Darn. As I turn toward her the other students peel away, and it's just Elizabeth and me again.
"Mrs. Plath! I was looking for you!"
"You found me Elizabeth." I hope it didn't show too much, my weariness.
"I just wanted to tell you, Mrs. Plath, thanks for everything."
Face it. She's demanding. I know she can't help it, but dang! How many times can I review her flight plan with her?
Elizabeth has Apert's Syndrome. It's a rare condition with a constellation of unfortunate physical and mental symptoms. First, and most notable, her head is misshapen.
Remember that old cartoon where the witch is sitting in front of the mirror in the haberdashery? She's trying on pointy hats for Halloween. The sales girl standing above her delicately places a hat pin in the topmost point of the hat. "Ouch!" says the witch.
That would be Elizabeth. When she wears her pilled-up red felt cowboy hat with the sequins glued around the brim, her head looks pretty normal. But when the hat flies off in a gust of wind, it reveals that her peaked head fills the uppermost regions of the hat. Straggly wisps of oily hair do little to disguise the fact.
Her face is distorted too. Poor Elizabeth! She's our Quazimoto. Porcine nose almost always free flowing. Two middle fingers on both hands are fused into one finger. One hairy knuckle, one fingernail.
Her squat little body, or should I say fuselage, is always cloaked in her gray American Airlines jacket.
Elizabeth comes to me on the quad every day now. Every brunch. Every lunch. She finds me to review her flight plan. It goes like this: First she stands in front of me and proudly taps the AA logo with the oversized middle finger of her right hand. "Do you know what this stands for?"
I used to say, "American Airlines" and it pleased her. She smiled at me and we talked about how the turbulence caught her on her flight to Miami. She had to make an emergency landing in Houston where they cleared the debris from her engines and she was on her way in no time!
Day after day we replayed the scenario: American Airlines; Miami; turbulence, debris. I asked her to be sure: "Elizabeth, are you the pilot, or the airplane?" "I'm the airplane! I'm a 747! I was on the runway with those other planes and they couldn't beat me. I'm the fastest one! I have red, white, and blue painted all over my fuselage!"
"Are you the stewardess?" she asked, eyeing me as though dubious of my qualifications. "No, I'm Air Traffic Control," I said.
The bell rang and with that she wanted clearance for take off. "747, cleared for takeoff!"
"Roger!" and off she flew to her classroom, arms atilt and backpack flapping.
She brought me two pieces of construction paper the next day. One gray and shaped like a submarine with three stripes running the length in red, white, and blue pastel chalk. The other is the AA logo, red and blue on white paper.
On about the 200th day she approached me and tapped the AA logo I became perverse. "What does this stand for?" she said.
"Alcoholics Anonymous?" "No."
"Aardvarks and Apples?" "No."
"Artichokes and Anchovies?" "No!"
I could have gone on and she sensed it. "American Airlines!" she declared with a little pat of her foot.
Students scuffled in the cafeteria one day. Elizabeth said she was taking on fuel so she didn't see everything. But she dwelled on it. She worked it into the routine for weeks. Did I see what happened? Neither did she. She was taking on fuel when all of a sudden, pow! "So I just took off!"
Mucus forms a shiny sheet between her nose and upper lip. I began carrying tissues for this reason. Now when I hand one to her, she smears and smears, only to have it begin again.
One of our campus supervisors observed this ritual day after day. She called me on the walkie talkie from across the quad. "You're going straight to heaven, you know."
"Do you think so?"
"Oh yeah, for all these conversations, you've got a straight shot!"
But today, behaving like the adolescents I serve, I am hiding from Elizabeth. I'd just like to complete my lunch supervision without the pre-flight itinerary.
It's not that hard to elude her. Believe me, I know her routine. So I move from my usual, highly visible spot, just to the left near a cinder block pillar supporting the overhang.
She comes out of the cafeteria at 12:40pm and lands exactly where we usually stand. Not seeing me, she's flustered. She begins a systematic scan of the area, turning quadrant by quadrant. When it's time to scan in my direction, I step behind the pillar. Like a light house beacon she turns again. With that, I step into the cafeteria and relax. She won't look in here. She's already been here. We always talk outside.
"Mrs. Plath!" A group of students beckons me and I'm off to lighthearted conversation about Senior Ball. Am I going? Will I dance? So much normal fun!
Then, from the corner of my eye, I can see her, taxiing closer. She found me. Darn. As I turn toward her the other students peel away, and it's just Elizabeth and me again.
"Mrs. Plath! I was looking for you!"
"You found me Elizabeth." I hope it didn't show too much, my weariness.
"I just wanted to tell you, Mrs. Plath, thanks for everything."
Monday, May 17, 2010
Moral Obligation
One of the greatest satisfactions of being a school principal is found in that rare moment when you feel you’ve made a difference. Principals are suckers for that. Give us the tiniest inkling that we’ve somehow helped, and we’re in it for another year.
Such a moment presented itself recently after a particularly disheartening event at my school.
We had a fight.
Not all that unusual on a high school campus since the invention of high school campuses. Kids get mad at each other. The anger builds up. They don’t always have the skills or finesse to deal with their anger more subtly. So, they hit.
Maybe ten years ago, that would have been that. Now, it’s not just that any more. Fights seem worse these days, even if they’re just the same old fights among teenagers we had back when our dads were punching each other behind the gym. Because the whole world seems to be racing toward the brink, we cannot feel confident that this fight might be the ordinary old kind of fight. This fight might be the fight that leads to the next one and the next one…the never-ending retaliatory kind of cyclical fight that defies logic and common sense. It could be that kind of fight. Or it could be worse.
Because we want to avoid all fights, we keep our collective ears to the ground and respond to the smallest murmur of discontent between individuals on campus. We counsel and advise young people in how to deal with peers they don’t like. We offer a wide range of options so that student A can resist the urge to smack student B.
We’re actually pretty good at it. But we’re not 100%. And so, this week, at lunch, A smacked B. B smacked back. And because they were equally matched, we had a frenetic fight with a big audience.
Such things are so very discouraging for so many reasons. Word goes home from the audience, and the community adds that piece of data to their view of our schools. And because of human nature, those bits of data get repeated more frequently than say, the data that we had 82 Scholar athletes from our Fall Sports teams. That’s 82 athletes with GPA’s of 3.0 or higher. We have another 63 from Winter Sports. Spring Sports are likely to be impressive too. Graduating seniors going to Stanford and Berkeley. Another Gates Millenium Scholarship winner this year.
But aside from that, such events create a stir on campus that may take days to subside. So, I went on the PA and talked to the kids. I said they each had the moral obligation to keep us informed if they knew a conflict was escalating.
They usually do know. They see the hard looks, and hear the insults, sometimes days before the players face off. We do get tips. We always act on them. And, we are quite successful at averting combat when we have the information in advance.
I told the kids all this and appealed to their moral sensibilities. Help us stop the fights before they begin. Help us stop the violence.
Now, in the lunchroom are Mike and Jacob, two seniors, pals, horsing around. They’re “play fighting,” making a show for their own amusement and for that of their friends, other big healthy strapping boys who smile and watch. It’s slow motion, as though these two are rehearsing for the next take on a movie set. They grab each other and pretend struggle.
I see this from across the room and begin to move toward them to fulfill my role of killjoy. But Danny sees them too. Danny is small and developmentally delayed, and Danny has heard my speech.
Before I reach Mike and Jacob, Danny gets there. He pushes himself between them facing Mike with outstretched arms to protect Jacob. Danny looks up at Mike’s fake snarl and says, “Stop! Stop the violence!”
By now I’m on the scene and Mike turns to me with a questioning smile. “We were playing, Mrs. Plath.”
“I know, Mike, but he doesn’t.”
Danny has turned to Jacob. “Aw you all wight?”
Jacob, too, smiles a questioning smile, but turns to Danny and clapping him on the shoulder says, “Thanks, man.”
I thanked Danny too. He helped me know there is hope. Someone is listening.
Such a moment presented itself recently after a particularly disheartening event at my school.
We had a fight.
Not all that unusual on a high school campus since the invention of high school campuses. Kids get mad at each other. The anger builds up. They don’t always have the skills or finesse to deal with their anger more subtly. So, they hit.
Maybe ten years ago, that would have been that. Now, it’s not just that any more. Fights seem worse these days, even if they’re just the same old fights among teenagers we had back when our dads were punching each other behind the gym. Because the whole world seems to be racing toward the brink, we cannot feel confident that this fight might be the ordinary old kind of fight. This fight might be the fight that leads to the next one and the next one…the never-ending retaliatory kind of cyclical fight that defies logic and common sense. It could be that kind of fight. Or it could be worse.
Because we want to avoid all fights, we keep our collective ears to the ground and respond to the smallest murmur of discontent between individuals on campus. We counsel and advise young people in how to deal with peers they don’t like. We offer a wide range of options so that student A can resist the urge to smack student B.
We’re actually pretty good at it. But we’re not 100%. And so, this week, at lunch, A smacked B. B smacked back. And because they were equally matched, we had a frenetic fight with a big audience.
Such things are so very discouraging for so many reasons. Word goes home from the audience, and the community adds that piece of data to their view of our schools. And because of human nature, those bits of data get repeated more frequently than say, the data that we had 82 Scholar athletes from our Fall Sports teams. That’s 82 athletes with GPA’s of 3.0 or higher. We have another 63 from Winter Sports. Spring Sports are likely to be impressive too. Graduating seniors going to Stanford and Berkeley. Another Gates Millenium Scholarship winner this year.
But aside from that, such events create a stir on campus that may take days to subside. So, I went on the PA and talked to the kids. I said they each had the moral obligation to keep us informed if they knew a conflict was escalating.
They usually do know. They see the hard looks, and hear the insults, sometimes days before the players face off. We do get tips. We always act on them. And, we are quite successful at averting combat when we have the information in advance.
I told the kids all this and appealed to their moral sensibilities. Help us stop the fights before they begin. Help us stop the violence.
Now, in the lunchroom are Mike and Jacob, two seniors, pals, horsing around. They’re “play fighting,” making a show for their own amusement and for that of their friends, other big healthy strapping boys who smile and watch. It’s slow motion, as though these two are rehearsing for the next take on a movie set. They grab each other and pretend struggle.
I see this from across the room and begin to move toward them to fulfill my role of killjoy. But Danny sees them too. Danny is small and developmentally delayed, and Danny has heard my speech.
Before I reach Mike and Jacob, Danny gets there. He pushes himself between them facing Mike with outstretched arms to protect Jacob. Danny looks up at Mike’s fake snarl and says, “Stop! Stop the violence!”
By now I’m on the scene and Mike turns to me with a questioning smile. “We were playing, Mrs. Plath.”
“I know, Mike, but he doesn’t.”
Danny has turned to Jacob. “Aw you all wight?”
Jacob, too, smiles a questioning smile, but turns to Danny and clapping him on the shoulder says, “Thanks, man.”
I thanked Danny too. He helped me know there is hope. Someone is listening.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Talk about pot? Never!
So the odds of marijuana being legalized are nil. Be real. Even in California.
Not sure that I truly want it to be legalized. But I wouldn't mind talking about it.
I can't help remembering my idealistic days at UC Santa Barbara, debating the pros and cons of legalization. In a formal debate class, no less. We found research that supported the legalization of heroin!
Research out of Texas showed that crime related to heroin addiction went down when the drug was legal. Addicts were able to lead productive lives when they accessed the drug legally. Some addicts. And that was an improvement over no addicts leading crime-free productive lives.
California needs the money, that's for sure. A large cache of cash has evaporated in this state. The gov began swinging the axe on taxes back with vehicle registration. Now it's schools and social social services sustaining the blows.
Maybe the gov is secretly hoping that millions and billions will come in from marijuana sales.
Not! Too many bugaboos. Too much superstition. Too many downsides, and no air time for an upside.
Unless we could talk about the parallel to legalized alcohol. Did prohibition stop alcohol consumption? Of course not. Did the rate of alcoholism go up when prohibition was repealed? Don't think so. More alcohol related crime? No. More underage users? Nope.
Did tax revenues go up? Yup.
As it is in California, folks buy "medical marijuana" at a "club." A doctor "prescribes" it, but not on a prescription pad.
Still, somehow a cancer patient, or someone with glaucoma goes to the "club," chooses Maui Wowie or Purple Haze, pays, and in some cases sits down and tokes up right there and then.
Why don't these folks have to go the pharmacy for their drugs like the rest of us? Why is it okay to smoke on the premises of a pot club when we can't open a pint of peach schnapps at the liquor store and start forgetting our worries on the spot? Why is "medical marijuana" different?
When the clubs buy the weed for resale, do they pay taxes on their purchases? When the patients buy the weed, do they? The current system, such as it is, is flawed.
But will we have a measured debate and take even a baby step toward tapping this potential source of revenue? Doubt it. We will have lots of screaming and crying and hyperbole. Red-faced folks will stand toe-to-toe with veins bulging, ears closed and mouths wide open. The measure will go down in resounding defeat.
We can't talk about anything anymore.
Not sure that I truly want it to be legalized. But I wouldn't mind talking about it.
I can't help remembering my idealistic days at UC Santa Barbara, debating the pros and cons of legalization. In a formal debate class, no less. We found research that supported the legalization of heroin!
Research out of Texas showed that crime related to heroin addiction went down when the drug was legal. Addicts were able to lead productive lives when they accessed the drug legally. Some addicts. And that was an improvement over no addicts leading crime-free productive lives.
California needs the money, that's for sure. A large cache of cash has evaporated in this state. The gov began swinging the axe on taxes back with vehicle registration. Now it's schools and social social services sustaining the blows.
Maybe the gov is secretly hoping that millions and billions will come in from marijuana sales.
Not! Too many bugaboos. Too much superstition. Too many downsides, and no air time for an upside.
Unless we could talk about the parallel to legalized alcohol. Did prohibition stop alcohol consumption? Of course not. Did the rate of alcoholism go up when prohibition was repealed? Don't think so. More alcohol related crime? No. More underage users? Nope.
Did tax revenues go up? Yup.
As it is in California, folks buy "medical marijuana" at a "club." A doctor "prescribes" it, but not on a prescription pad.
Still, somehow a cancer patient, or someone with glaucoma goes to the "club," chooses Maui Wowie or Purple Haze, pays, and in some cases sits down and tokes up right there and then.
Why don't these folks have to go the pharmacy for their drugs like the rest of us? Why is it okay to smoke on the premises of a pot club when we can't open a pint of peach schnapps at the liquor store and start forgetting our worries on the spot? Why is "medical marijuana" different?
When the clubs buy the weed for resale, do they pay taxes on their purchases? When the patients buy the weed, do they? The current system, such as it is, is flawed.
But will we have a measured debate and take even a baby step toward tapping this potential source of revenue? Doubt it. We will have lots of screaming and crying and hyperbole. Red-faced folks will stand toe-to-toe with veins bulging, ears closed and mouths wide open. The measure will go down in resounding defeat.
We can't talk about anything anymore.
Monday, March 22, 2010
Getting Over It --- Whatever "It" Is
I've just been reading Deepak Chopra on happiness. You know what that means. I've gotta get over something.
I might be getting a little hypochondriac-ish. Gotta get over that. But I have a lot of stuff going wrong with me. I was playing on my Wii and stretched a tendon in the arch of my foot past the point of no return. That's a kick in the pants.
What if I'm on my way to dowager-ville? Some people gain weight in their hips or thighs. I might gain weight on my back! Up high. Oh no!Quasimoto! With hips and thighs.
I've got a a floater in my left eye. It does as its moniker suggests, drifting in and out of my field of vision just when the six pack abs commercial comes on.
My mood - mostly okay. I quit saying, "Fine," when people ask how I'm doing. Partly because George Carlin said it's inane to say "fine," and partly because I've realigned my responses to more nearly match reality. "Fine" could be overstating it. Sometimes I say "groovy." I haven't been truly groovy in many years, but I enjoy the reaction.
But am I happy? Sure. Except, the more I know the less lee-way there is. Smaller margin of error.
I remember in The Big Chill, Mary Kay Place is talking to JoBeth Williams about the men she meets. She says with her experiences she can size men up in the first 10 seconds after she meets them and know whether they're worth any effort. JoBeth says, "Well, at least you give them a fair shot."
That's me. I can zero in on the salient pretty quickly now. With age and experience comes insight, sometimes mistaken for wisdom. It just doesn't take that long to size up the newest ride and figure out if it's worth buying a ticket.
But often enough I'm wrong, and I love a surprise. For example, I can cook! I'm pretty good at it. Who knew? Check out The Flavor Bible.
I still hang out with kids for the wonder. Dogs and cats rock. Simple and deep all at once.
Often joy comes in the familiar: Seeing my husband peek around the living room corner again this evening. Returning to Yellowstone. Watching The Sixth Sense the sixth time. Replaying Achmed the Dead Terrorist and laughing like an Alzheimer's patient. "Silence! I keel you!"
Can you hear me Deepak? I'm happy I tell you. I'm over it, whatever it was.
I might be getting a little hypochondriac-ish. Gotta get over that. But I have a lot of stuff going wrong with me. I was playing on my Wii and stretched a tendon in the arch of my foot past the point of no return. That's a kick in the pants.
What if I'm on my way to dowager-ville? Some people gain weight in their hips or thighs. I might gain weight on my back! Up high. Oh no!Quasimoto! With hips and thighs.
I've got a a floater in my left eye. It does as its moniker suggests, drifting in and out of my field of vision just when the six pack abs commercial comes on.
My mood - mostly okay. I quit saying, "Fine," when people ask how I'm doing. Partly because George Carlin said it's inane to say "fine," and partly because I've realigned my responses to more nearly match reality. "Fine" could be overstating it. Sometimes I say "groovy." I haven't been truly groovy in many years, but I enjoy the reaction.
But am I happy? Sure. Except, the more I know the less lee-way there is. Smaller margin of error.
I remember in The Big Chill, Mary Kay Place is talking to JoBeth Williams about the men she meets. She says with her experiences she can size men up in the first 10 seconds after she meets them and know whether they're worth any effort. JoBeth says, "Well, at least you give them a fair shot."
That's me. I can zero in on the salient pretty quickly now. With age and experience comes insight, sometimes mistaken for wisdom. It just doesn't take that long to size up the newest ride and figure out if it's worth buying a ticket.
But often enough I'm wrong, and I love a surprise. For example, I can cook! I'm pretty good at it. Who knew? Check out The Flavor Bible.
I still hang out with kids for the wonder. Dogs and cats rock. Simple and deep all at once.
Often joy comes in the familiar: Seeing my husband peek around the living room corner again this evening. Returning to Yellowstone. Watching The Sixth Sense the sixth time. Replaying Achmed the Dead Terrorist and laughing like an Alzheimer's patient. "Silence! I keel you!"
Can you hear me Deepak? I'm happy I tell you. I'm over it, whatever it was.
Thursday, March 11, 2010
I'm from Oklahoma. Read: Scotland
I had the honor and privilege of attending a swearing-in ceremony for 1303 new citizens of the United States of America yesterday.
I sat in the balcony of Oakland's Paramount Theatre, an Art Deco icon. The Art Deco Style is defined by eclecticism, a perfect metaphor for a melting pot. Families and friends of the imminent citizens from 105 countries surrounded me along with gilded curtains and walls, sweeping images of man and nature.
We watched a video about Ellis Island. I saw the face of my great great grandfather on the screen. Or someone who looked just like him. Like most American citizens, I descended from immigrants.
We sang the National Anthem together with tears streaming down our faces. We put hands on our hearts and pledged allegiance to the flag of the United States of America.
We heard a man from US Citizenship & Immigration Services speak seven languages with ease. I marveled at his facility, but the young woman seated next to me said, "I think this should all be in English. They're becoming American citizens, after all."
I thought about my great great grandfather and wondered what resistance he encountered in New York and Missouri. And my great great grandmother, and my great grandpa. When those people who got here first looked at my family, did they see human beings?
Many years ago, I took in a stray kitten. Tiny, filthy, and on the verge of becoming ferrel, she had been taunted and battered by the young boys living in the apartment below mine. After weeks of coaxing, she finally allowed me to lift her into my arms. Shuddering with fear, she clung to me as we ascended to my apartment. She lived with me for 16 years. Lulu.
In Lulu's 13th year, a wet, ragged, and desperate kitten found its way to the crawl space under my house. Of course I took her in, if only for a few days to find her a new home. To my surprise, Lulu didn't just resent the new kitty, she actively stalked her and attacked her at every opportunity. "You don't belong here!" she seemed to be saying. "Go back where you came from! This is my house."
I guess Lulu forgot her own history.
I sat in the balcony of Oakland's Paramount Theatre, an Art Deco icon. The Art Deco Style is defined by eclecticism, a perfect metaphor for a melting pot. Families and friends of the imminent citizens from 105 countries surrounded me along with gilded curtains and walls, sweeping images of man and nature.
We watched a video about Ellis Island. I saw the face of my great great grandfather on the screen. Or someone who looked just like him. Like most American citizens, I descended from immigrants.
We sang the National Anthem together with tears streaming down our faces. We put hands on our hearts and pledged allegiance to the flag of the United States of America.
We heard a man from US Citizenship & Immigration Services speak seven languages with ease. I marveled at his facility, but the young woman seated next to me said, "I think this should all be in English. They're becoming American citizens, after all."
I thought about my great great grandfather and wondered what resistance he encountered in New York and Missouri. And my great great grandmother, and my great grandpa. When those people who got here first looked at my family, did they see human beings?
Many years ago, I took in a stray kitten. Tiny, filthy, and on the verge of becoming ferrel, she had been taunted and battered by the young boys living in the apartment below mine. After weeks of coaxing, she finally allowed me to lift her into my arms. Shuddering with fear, she clung to me as we ascended to my apartment. She lived with me for 16 years. Lulu.
In Lulu's 13th year, a wet, ragged, and desperate kitten found its way to the crawl space under my house. Of course I took her in, if only for a few days to find her a new home. To my surprise, Lulu didn't just resent the new kitty, she actively stalked her and attacked her at every opportunity. "You don't belong here!" she seemed to be saying. "Go back where you came from! This is my house."
I guess Lulu forgot her own history.
Saturday, March 6, 2010
OJ at the Smithsonian
I haven't heard back from the Smithsonian yet. I sent them a clarifying question: How do you determine which artifacts to acquire and display?
'Cause I was wondering about O.J. Simpson's suit. What in blue blazes makes my beloved Smithsonian Institution want that?
There's a clear reason, I'm sure. My beloved, my esteemed Smithsonian doesn't go around like a drunken lotto winner buying up stuff because "wouldn't it be cool?" (My brother bought a hearse once. It was pretty cool. We had fun driving around thumbing our noses for a while.) But the Smithsonian has a good reason...just, what is it?
I was thinking of the "Trial of the Century" angle. So while I'm waiting for them to clear this up, I did some research on famous trials.
OJ's not the only murdering SOB who generated a media dominating courtroom escapade. Charles Manson, Scott Peterson...but don't they all belong in Madam Toussaud's Wax Museum exhibit of the macabre? Surely not the Smithsonian.
There's a difference between dictionaries, in case you didn't know. Some are dictionaries of Standard American English. Others are dictionaries of common American usage. The former shows us the best, what we should strive for. The latter simply shows us what is.
I thought the Smithsonian would display the Standard, the highest achievements, the proudest moments. Yes, American history and culture aren't totally comprised of nobility and glory. We have to know who we've been and where we've failed.
But OJ Simpson?
All right, I watched the trial. I watched. I might watch it again someday like I might watch the "mystery" of Marilyn Monroe's death, or Helter Skelter. On MSNBC Investigates. On E! Most Shocking Celebrity Crimes. I'm not above it.
But the Smithsonian is.
'Cause I was wondering about O.J. Simpson's suit. What in blue blazes makes my beloved Smithsonian Institution want that?
There's a clear reason, I'm sure. My beloved, my esteemed Smithsonian doesn't go around like a drunken lotto winner buying up stuff because "wouldn't it be cool?" (My brother bought a hearse once. It was pretty cool. We had fun driving around thumbing our noses for a while.) But the Smithsonian has a good reason...just, what is it?
I was thinking of the "Trial of the Century" angle. So while I'm waiting for them to clear this up, I did some research on famous trials.
OJ's not the only murdering SOB who generated a media dominating courtroom escapade. Charles Manson, Scott Peterson...but don't they all belong in Madam Toussaud's Wax Museum exhibit of the macabre? Surely not the Smithsonian.
There's a difference between dictionaries, in case you didn't know. Some are dictionaries of Standard American English. Others are dictionaries of common American usage. The former shows us the best, what we should strive for. The latter simply shows us what is.
I thought the Smithsonian would display the Standard, the highest achievements, the proudest moments. Yes, American history and culture aren't totally comprised of nobility and glory. We have to know who we've been and where we've failed.
But OJ Simpson?
All right, I watched the trial. I watched. I might watch it again someday like I might watch the "mystery" of Marilyn Monroe's death, or Helter Skelter. On MSNBC Investigates. On E! Most Shocking Celebrity Crimes. I'm not above it.
But the Smithsonian is.
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