tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14608545221389443342024-03-13T22:15:05.133-07:00Les Pensées du chat noirLaurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.comBlogger72125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-33106019307926047412018-03-31T18:28:00.002-07:002022-10-20T18:49:12.671-07:00What I do matters<div style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3TgSFd0ZSDM/WsAufq93BXI/AAAAAAAAFDw/uQQlV_CIQ107bB3QVV-e6NkmsAM-uo2-QCLcBGAs/s1600/bonjour-869208_1920.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1280" data-original-width="1261" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-3TgSFd0ZSDM/WsAufq93BXI/AAAAAAAAFDw/uQQlV_CIQ107bB3QVV-e6NkmsAM-uo2-QCLcBGAs/s320/bonjour-869208_1920.jpg" width="315" /></a></div>
<br />
The first thing that ever lit me up, inside and out, was music. Close behind that was French. We were exposed – woefully late, I might add – to French and Spanish in junior high. I liked both, would go on to study both, but the language I fell instantly, head-over-heels in love with, was French. Thanks to two marvelous high school teachers, Ms. Griffiths and Ms. Chester, I was able to cram five years of study into four, and actually got pretty good. I chose a college with approximately one goal in mind, study more French and go to France. Nazareth College gave me a scholarship to do just that. When my time there was almost up, my trusted and beloved mentors, Candide, Ruben, and Octave, encouraged me to try for grad school. Since all I really wanted to do was keep speaking and reading French, this seemed like a plausible option, so I did.<br />
<br />
When I arrived at Indiana University, I still wasn't really sure what exactly I intended to do, other <br />
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than get a degree or two in French. I had a teaching assistantship, but subbing gigs at my local high school had suggested the classroom might not be for me. Still, I reasoned, I'd get to speak French. Besides, it paid the bills.<br />
<br />
I loved it. Turns out teaching college is exactly what I'm supposed to do. I remembered Octave and Ruben and Candide and began to believe that like them, I could maybe make a difference, see that my love affair with French didn't begin and end with me. Less than two years after finishing my PhD, I landed at Cumberland College, where I've been ever since.<br />
<br />
It's not all roses, though. This love of mine is subject to more or less constant attack. I've gotten flak about my francophilia pretty much from day one, right up until the present. Not that I've much cared, being a) stubborn as a mule and b) convinced this is what I was born to do. I've been interrogated about what it's good for, admonished that everyone speaks English, had so many stereotypes rammed down my throat that I'm surprised I've not yet choked. I still don't really care. France and French are just my "thing." Quitting them would be like quitting oxygen.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ebqTpGDC1hM/WsAsvMlyuQI/AAAAAAAAFDc/O-C-IJzMy6YTTNY24e-bQvzAyt0iYUHXACEwYBhgL/s1600/butterfly-998311_1280.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="859" data-original-width="1272" height="216" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ebqTpGDC1hM/WsAsvMlyuQI/AAAAAAAAFDc/O-C-IJzMy6YTTNY24e-bQvzAyt0iYUHXACEwYBhgL/s320/butterfly-998311_1280.jpg" width="320" /></a>I could spit out a bunch of numbers, use math to explain why French matters. I won't [although if you're interested, you can check out the <a href="http://www.frenchteachers.org/QuickFactsforFrenchTeachers.pdf" target="_blank">AATF Fact Sheet here</a>]. I didn't learn French for the numbers. I did it for love. For love and for the stories. The blueberry grower at the Paris agriculture exhibition. The World War II pilot shot down in the center of France who decided to make his life there. The journalist who flew on the actual Concorde. The couple camping in the American West when they encountered their very first skunk. The businessman who needed a French-English speaker to get through the immigration line in India. He in turn got us to our connecting airport minutes before the airport closed due to monsoons; without him we would have been another day late in meeting our son. These aren't just ways French has proved useful; they are tales of human connection, stories that never would have happened if I hadn't embraced a language and cultures beyond those into which I was born.<br />
<br />
To many such things don't matter, including those in my own back yard. Our governor began disparaging my life's work years ago. Then my daughters' high school began an attack of its own, replacing a talented teacher of first-year French with a second-rate computer program that is leaving students further and further behind. I know French, and I know good instruction. This software offers neither. Nor can it. When is the last time you heard a computer, of its own free will, share a compelling story or make a deep connection? I guess such a machine could exist, but I've not seen it here.<br />
<br />
Worst of all, French has turned out to be the canary in the coal mine. Education itself is on the chopping block, in my state and across our land. Libraries, universities, and especially teachers are undervalued to a degree I have never seen. Teachers have seen their benefits cut, then found themselves bullied by the government for daring to protest. Every time I think things cannot get much worse, they do.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-98EwOjr6qAw/WsAu88JKiKI/AAAAAAAAFD4/PqqX2s4581E1yAxTWhK6SApnCZBCP5DFwCLcBGAs/s1600/book-2225811_1920.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1115" data-original-width="1600" height="222" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-98EwOjr6qAw/WsAu88JKiKI/AAAAAAAAFD4/PqqX2s4581E1yAxTWhK6SApnCZBCP5DFwCLcBGAs/s320/book-2225811_1920.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
It doesn't have to be this way. There's a time to be heartbroken, and a time to say, "enough!" Let's stand up for the things that matter, not (just) the numbers, but also the stories. Especially the stories, <i>all</i> the stories. They may be the only thing that saves us now.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-74283943514115219822018-03-08T16:48:00.001-08:002022-10-20T18:48:21.368-07:00About that wall...<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vGV2d4e_HK0/WqHSdT5H1AI/AAAAAAAAFAE/vLkgwzymxtMrKVD_cK3_aCVVnm2d9V5FwCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/brick-wall-3208733_1920.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vGV2d4e_HK0/WqHSdT5H1AI/AAAAAAAAFAE/vLkgwzymxtMrKVD_cK3_aCVVnm2d9V5FwCK4BGAYYCw/s320/brick-wall-3208733_1920.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by MabelAmber on Pixabay</td></tr>
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Since November 2016, there has been an awful lot of big talk about walls. Got to protect ourselves, right? There are a lot of <i>bad hombres</i> out there, after all.<br />
<br />
Here's the thing. I get it.<br />
<br />
Keep reading, please. I'm still the same center-left tree-hugger – or far-left liberal nutjob, depending on your lens – that I've been far longer than most of you have known me.<br />
<br />
Still. I know a thing or two about walls. And I bet if I pushed hard enough, you'd admit that you do too.<br />
<br />
Think about it. Walls aren't all bad. It's March 8 in the South and I'm sitting here watching it snow. I'm pretty dang grateful to have a set of sturdy walls between me and all of that.<br />
<br />
Or take my cats. True, they are not fans of walls unless said walls can be climbed. But walls sure come in handy when they won't stop fighting and need to be confined to separate corners!<br />
<br />
It's not really snow or cats that are leading me down this thought-path, however. I'm thinking more of the times walls <i>don't</i> work.<br />
<br />
Like border walls.<br />
<br />
Like school walls.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FtDiZ3ojUxg/WqHSlnsLfqI/AAAAAAAAFAM/EeCSwjV7kWE17EAdYZYTNbaaSw8cXM2rACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/oladimeji-odunsi-307743-unsplash.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-FtDiZ3ojUxg/WqHSlnsLfqI/AAAAAAAAFAM/EeCSwjV7kWE17EAdYZYTNbaaSw8cXM2rACK4BGAYYCw/s320/oladimeji-odunsi-307743-unsplash.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Oladimejj Odunsi on Unsplash </td></tr>
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Like the walls we build around our personal space, both physical and emotional.<br />
<br />
I don't know about you, but I've got a few too many of those walls. I'm talking several layers thick, like some kind of medieval fortress for my soul. It's a wall made of a lot of different materials – the election, yes, school violence, yes, but so much more. Things like the disaster that was my marriage. Learning that "innocent until proven guilty" is just a pretty phrase unless you have the right combination of color, cash, and connections. The lonely exhaustion of solo parenting, knowing I can never come close to being everything my kids deserve. The dozens of betrayals, large and small, the relationships cherished and lost, the fear of being hurt again. None of these building blocks are necessarily all that effective on their own, but stacked together, they're pretty hard to breach. If you add that I'm a natural introvert, perfectly content to be left to my own devices, well, if I'm not careful my self-made fortress can suit me awfully well.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fVPRoBNDnQI/WqHW7jyMnTI/AAAAAAAAFAo/Eaxoit4VMYEmrmYQy883umIAIREZKwm2gCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/angello-lopez-550469-unsplash.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-fVPRoBNDnQI/WqHW7jyMnTI/AAAAAAAAFAo/Eaxoit4VMYEmrmYQy883umIAIREZKwm2gCK4BGAYYCw/s320/angello-lopez-550469-unsplash.jpg" width="212" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by Angello Lopez on Unsplash </td></tr>
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The thing is, even introverts are not made to live alone. A house built for one is not necessarily much of a home. I know this, and so I'm trying. Through heartbreak, trial, and error, I think I've found my tribe, the ones who are still and always there when the dust clears after life's many storms. Even when I wall myself in for self-protection, once I start tearing that structure down, I find them there on the other side, patiently waiting for me to emerge.<br />
<br />
I've not yet been able to quit my wall habit. Maybe I never will. But I am happy to report that I am losing my touch. The walls aren't as thick as they used to be, and it takes less to knock them down. It's a work-in-progress, though. I still have a mean perfectionist streak that would love to stack every block so perfectly that nothing can get in.<br />
<br />
If 40+ years on the planet have taught me anything, though, it's that perfectionism is overrated. Life is fuller, richer, better in the gaps, the places where you leave a way out... and in.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mXVAL5b9L6I/WqHTHL9FicI/AAAAAAAAFAc/HvE_BlH9G0MRdh5_K_grwUwCUFxcLq73wCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/hole-205448_1920.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-mXVAL5b9L6I/WqHTHL9FicI/AAAAAAAAFAc/HvE_BlH9G0MRdh5_K_grwUwCUFxcLq73wCK4BGAYYCw/s320/hole-205448_1920.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Photo by MissEJB on Pixabay</td></tr>
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-12011841208492891332017-12-17T13:52:00.002-08:002022-10-20T18:47:42.224-07:00Christmas Music Blues<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cHRYwacNSRA/WjbYc0Yqg1I/AAAAAAAAE78/4r6Ixl7tbd8Z_aHu1Bqfo8YGhvyi6SDbACK4BGAYYCw/s1600/IMG_5962.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-cHRYwacNSRA/WjbYc0Yqg1I/AAAAAAAAE78/4r6Ixl7tbd8Z_aHu1Bqfo8YGhvyi6SDbACK4BGAYYCw/s200/IMG_5962.jpg" width="150" /></a>I fling the hymnal angrily to the floor, thankful to be the only one home. At least I won't have to hide my tears. "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing." Humph. I have rather another word in mind for "Hark," also ending in "k" but nowhere near so lofty. I'm crossing into blasphemy. I don't care.<br />
<br />
This is not an episode of Wesley-induced rage, although I suspect that I am far from the first or only church musician to be frustrated by the musical stylings of our dear Charles.<br />
<br />
Nor is it my usual irritation with the unholy greed that marks what is supposedly the Christmas season in the West.<br />
<br />
It isn't even the mental and emotional gymnastics required to manage different people's trauma histories through the holidays. Yeah, it's a little awkward and a whole lot messy, and yeah, I sometimes forget my lines, but I mostly know those scripts by heart.<br />
<br />
It's another holiday memory slideshow, four bleak snapshots looping relentlessly in my mind:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Implacable questions in a dismal gray office where I hoped for help and instead found pain.</li>
<li>Me, huddled on the kitchen floor after the fight that would mark the beginning of the end.</li>
<li>A knife raised menacingly in a small hand.</li>
<li>My father lost in a maze of tubes and wires.</li>
</ul>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8Lb_xHE0XrI/Wjbds1ff3PI/AAAAAAAAE8I/47-DF5ZkCMwyOxKJCHdUqoi3p_Ye5H0ywCLcBGAs/s1600/piano-2716597_1920.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="958" data-original-width="1600" height="119" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-8Lb_xHE0XrI/Wjbds1ff3PI/AAAAAAAAE8I/47-DF5ZkCMwyOxKJCHdUqoi3p_Ye5H0ywCLcBGAs/s200/piano-2716597_1920.jpg" width="200" /></a>"Maybe" I think, "I can replace this show with music." I bend to retrieve the hymnal, look for Sunday's second hymn. "Rejoice Ye Pure In Heart." You have got to be kidding me. In the face of my psyche's chosen holiday feature film, I'm supposed to rejoice?!?! Then again, I'm not so sure I belong with the "pure in heart." Perhaps that lets me off the hook.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
I start again to play. It goes badly. I break the music down, transform it into a mechanical exercise. It goes okay.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
"Take Time to be Holy" is a passable success. I decide not to overthink the implications of this for my current mood and turn instead to "Joy to the World." I can play the heck out of this one. I proceed to do just that. Until... </div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-B5ETJ7rcA3U/WjbO5TwCz-I/AAAAAAAAE7s/D-6rUomZRXMZlvXp5Re9ejN8YHfgyrQLgCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/sermon-slide-deck-the-promise-of-christmas-blessing-genesis-1214-35-638.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-B5ETJ7rcA3U/WjbO5TwCz-I/AAAAAAAAE7s/D-6rUomZRXMZlvXp5Re9ejN8YHfgyrQLgCK4BGAYYCw/s320/sermon-slide-deck-the-promise-of-christmas-blessing-genesis-1214-35-638.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
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Well then. Apparently, the sorrows are supposed to stop growing. I'm not convinced. And something else in this verse nags at me too: the blessings. Apparently they are still flowing. I sit on my hands and think. As dark as things have been, there have been moments of light. Not the light at the end of the tunnel. Not the candle on the cold, dark, winter's night. More like a sense of light, dimly perceived through a scrim or screen. Kind of a lot like this image, repurposed from Ann Patchett's "<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2017/12/15/opinion/sunday/shopping-consumerism.html?mtrref=www.google.com&assetType=opinion" target="_blank">My Year of No Shopping</a>": "a thick coat of Vaseline smeared on glass: We can see some shapes out there, light and dark..."</div>
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HX2MSOboN7o/WjbeEaddOmI/AAAAAAAAE8M/BhQ4f-lpJuI-34uiBwg0RhMCPCsWlmLTgCLcBGAs/s1600/StockSnap_841FYWOCB0.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="132" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-HX2MSOboN7o/WjbeEaddOmI/AAAAAAAAE8M/BhQ4f-lpJuI-34uiBwg0RhMCPCsWlmLTgCLcBGAs/s200/StockSnap_841FYWOCB0.jpg" width="200" /></a>That's what it's like in my head these days. I've already listed dark shapes, the ones my mind insists it most clearly sees. I failed to mention, though, that a) my mind likes to trick my brain, and b) each dark shape has its opposite in light. It's hard to see through the Vaseline. But if I take a tissue and wipe it away, I remember and I see. I see that I left that office and found some help. The fights are over, their instigator gone. The knife is safely in its block. My father is free of tubes and wires. </div>
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The shape of hope can be difficult to discern. That doesn't mean it isn't there.</div>
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Anyone got a tissue?</div>
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-31835475263714011942017-10-23T19:05:00.002-07:002022-10-20T18:46:09.262-07:00Nellie<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8kOxB6Qr1rs/We6ToFoinMI/AAAAAAAAE5M/QBUSeHxIv8YKx-yACs-VIhJ_ll8eQiMsACEwYBhgL/s1600/Nellie2.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="248" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-8kOxB6Qr1rs/We6ToFoinMI/AAAAAAAAE5M/QBUSeHxIv8YKx-yACs-VIhJ_ll8eQiMsACEwYBhgL/s320/Nellie2.jpg" width="220" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Nellie her first year home</i></td></tr>
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It all started with an ad in the paper.<br />
<br />
Well, not really. It all started when we adopted two kids. They hadn't been here long before we realized every kid really should get to grow up with a dog. I was a vaguely known entity in the local animal rescue community, had helped re-home a few before, so I imagined one would come our way. And one probably would've, but then I saw this ad:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>Female black lab mix free to good home. Has shots. Spayed.</i></div>
<br />
Ads like this bother me. First of all, I don't like to think of any creature being rejected. Secondly, "free" animals around here are all too often sacrificed to fights. Combine all that with an early childhood spent with labs, and you can guess what happened next. I made the call, and we haven't looked back since.<br />
<br />
Until now.<br />
<br />
Nellie is...was...to my kids what my dog, Misty, was to me. Misty was not a lab, but rather an Australian Shepherd we got when I was young, sometime after Barnaby, who <i>was</i> a lab, was lost to complications of Parvo. Despite her fear of cows (admittedly not a great feature in a herding dog on a beef farm!) and one entirely too-close call with a passing car, Misty lived a long, full life. She was smart, funny, and occasionally brave – at least when it came to defending her red pick-up truck! Most of all, she was my constant companion, a girl's best friend. More than one chapter of my life closed when, during my senior year of college, she finally crossed the Rainbow Bridge.<br />
<br />
My kids had that with Nellie. Like me and Misty, they've literally grown up together.<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1e2NBTq4Aiw/We6TpPJMJ_I/AAAAAAAAE5Y/THa-gjlWgew1Rb403Zuu5Kp3OXbyz6NLQCEwYBhgL/s1600/OlderNellie.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="360" data-original-width="270" height="320" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-1e2NBTq4Aiw/We6TpPJMJ_I/AAAAAAAAE5Y/THa-gjlWgew1Rb403Zuu5Kp3OXbyz6NLQCEwYBhgL/s320/OlderNellie.jpg" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Nellie going gray</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
The only thing is, Nellie being a dog and all, she didn't just grow up – in fact, one could argue that is the one thing that <i>didn't </i>happen in her fourteen years! She grew old. The seizures she'd always suffered lessened, but she lost a third of her teeth. Her heart, the physical one, began to fail, even as the other, the heart of love, continued to beat strong. On the last day, the one we'd feared for months yet never could imagine, she got up, had a snack, and stretched out for a nap. It was a morning like any other, except this time, she didn't wake.<br />
<br />
I've said before that it is hard enough to lose a pet, that it's a thousand times worse to see your kids losing one too. I imagine most of my readers know such pain entirely too well. So rather than dwell on it, I thought I'd share a few snapshots that reveal Nellie as she <strike>is</strike> was, show why we <strike>loved</strike> love her so:<br />
<br />
<ul>
<li>Whining from inside her crate at our lion-maned cat as, dangling from the top, he taunted her.</li>
<li>Stealing a bologna sandwich and swallowing it whole.</li>
<li>Standing at the back door barking, usually around midnight, her hair –and mine!– standing on end.</li>
<li>Basking in the admiration of friends, strangers, and passers-by: "Look! There's a dog at Niagara Falls, and it's smiling!"</li>
<li>Taking off hell-bent into the woods, hot on Cooper's and later Roxie's tail, even if we suspect she rarely knew what she was chasing.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BMPkHY2rBYg/We6TpYYj7gI/AAAAAAAAE5k/jrEOoJlpp7A6MPpXq1aOerFyF77A8NUxACEwYBhgL/s1600/NellieRoxie.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1383" data-original-width="1600" height="275" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-BMPkHY2rBYg/We6TpYYj7gI/AAAAAAAAE5k/jrEOoJlpp7A6MPpXq1aOerFyF77A8NUxACEwYBhgL/s320/NellieRoxie.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Nellie and Roxie</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</li>
<li>Sheepishly belly-crawling back into our yard after sneaking off for a bite or two of new-lain horse apple or stinking fresh green cow pie.</li>
<li>Getting skunked, and good, right smack in the face.</li>
<li>Looking at me mournfully through yet another round of wormer – she never could quit those pasture snacks!</li>
<li>Curling by my feet as I slept fitfully on the couch, keeping vigil through another night of illness, usually hers, sometimes the kids' or mine.</li>
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<div style="text-align: right;">
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<li>Leaning on my knee, gazing up goofily with her snaggle tooth and her bugged-out eyes.</li>
<li>Snoring. Clicking toenails. Clandestine crunching of cat food. It's way too quiet now.</li>
</ul>
<br />
I know this post needs some kind of end, but I've had about enough of things coming to an end here in black cat land, so let's just say to be continued. We'll catch the rest when we meet again, somewhere across the Rainbow Bridge.<br />
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-4028268932277498922017-10-13T13:36:00.002-07:002022-10-20T18:43:55.852-07:00My Uncle Doug<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YIxDq31jdK8/WeEd18y_I6I/AAAAAAAAE38/KLUyMS2Vz5QAT0FnJrLVUiyjsb0w9a0QwCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_97431.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1268" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-YIxDq31jdK8/WeEd18y_I6I/AAAAAAAAE38/KLUyMS2Vz5QAT0FnJrLVUiyjsb0w9a0QwCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_97431.jpg" width="252" /></a>"It makes me so happy that you call him that," my grandmother said.<br />
<br />
"What?" I asked, confused. I don't remember what I'd said, only that I truly was perplexed. It was just another ordinary conversation, and I had mentioned my uncle Doug.<br />
<br />
"That you refer to him as your uncle."<br />
<br />
"Well, he <b>is</b>, isn't he?!" I replied, now more irritated than confused.<br />
<br />
I don't know what we said or did next. I only remember how I felt. But now that two or three decades have passed, I have some idea of what she meant. After all, I can't count the times I've heard some version of "oh... <b>you're</b> the mom." Blood relations are a given. Other ones are not.<br />
<br />
Except in my family, they were. My grandparents were all about fostering and adoption, long before it was in the news, long before it was "a thing." Doug, he was one of the foster kids. For the longest time, I didn't know, or didn't know I knew. To me, he was a beloved uncle, someone to make me laugh and give me sweets. Sure, I knew his last name was Mason, that he wasn't blessed with the Dennis neck –or lack thereof– but it never occurred to me that for some people, that might matter. Not, that is, until I adopted three kids. Our family's "normal" is still, for far too many people, strange.<br />
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This sense of family has been much on my mind lately, partly because I'm trying to write a book, partly thanks to my work with the <a href="https://blog.attachmenttraumanetwork.org/" target="_blank">ATN blog</a>, where every week I get to share other families' stories. This week, though, it's almost entirely because, well, Uncle Doug died, and with him, a piece of my family's collective heart. I know he's better off now, enjoying a long-deserved rest after a life filled with his infectious smile, but also hard work and many sorrows. I can see him rough-housing with his dog, Jake, laughing with his wife, my aunt Joan, and their daughter, Donna, two beautiful souls he lost far too soon. Plus there's my grandparents. How good it must be for all of them to be together. I miss my kids after only a day. They'd been apart for years.</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;"><br />Still, it hurts, the pain made worse by the fact that I can't get to the funeral, won't be able to say a proper goodbye. Maybe this will work instead:</div>
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<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<i>Thank you, Uncle Doug, for loving me and my kids, not <b>like </b>we were your own, but <b>because</b> we were. Goodbye for now. Someday we'll meet again.</i></div>
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-80424913298039574972017-09-20T19:07:00.002-07:002022-10-20T18:42:37.673-07:00Facing the mess as me<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vYvUvksxrWY/WcMYEya3eaI/AAAAAAAAE10/mH-eRZILJj4PZbs4WQL2hxl620n9X3UygCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/ATN-header-logo-300.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="106" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vYvUvksxrWY/WcMYEya3eaI/AAAAAAAAE10/mH-eRZILJj4PZbs4WQL2hxl620n9X3UygCK4BGAYYCw/s200/ATN-header-logo-300.jpg" width="200" /></a>We all have so much we mean to do.<br />
<br />
I, for example, <i>mean</i> to put up a new post on the ATN blog every Tuesday night. Last spring, I started to hit my rhythm, and last summer, I was really getting it done. I felt productive and accomplished. Things were good.<br />
<br />
Then the school year started.<br />
<br />
Day 1 was good.<br />
Day 2 was good.<br />
Days 3, 4, and an unspecified number after that, not so much.<br />
<br />Members of my family are having a rough time. I'm seeing those closest to me suffer from cancer, injury, heartache. I used to live in Houston. I have friends in Puerto Rico. And can we talk for a minute about India, the place where 75% of my household was born? In the midst of all the horror here, this was largely missed:<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.theguardian.com/world/2017/aug/30/mumbai-paralysed-by-floods-as-india-and-region-hit-by-worst-monsoon-rains-in-years" style="font-family: "Guardian Egyptian Web", "Guardian Text Egyptian Web", Georgia, serif; font-variant-ligatures: common-ligatures;" target="_blank">South Asia floods kill 1,200 and shut 1.8 million children out of school</a></div>
<br />
Bringing things back – literally – to the home front, this marks the first time since August that we've had three homemade meals in a week. Yes, we are lucky to be eating at all. And yes, plenty of families eat but never cook. It might seem like no big thing, but for us, <i>not</i> cooking and eating at home is a big, fat, hairy deal. (Garfield anyone?)<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-upgnGqzDZNI/WcMc5h0wCOI/AAAAAAAAE2Y/AxKAa17b8mg8Yfl-_msloQY6TTNh4e88QCK4BGAYYCw/s1600/alarm-814507_1920.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="133" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-upgnGqzDZNI/WcMc5h0wCOI/AAAAAAAAE2Y/AxKAa17b8mg8Yfl-_msloQY6TTNh4e88QCK4BGAYYCw/s200/alarm-814507_1920.jpg" width="200" /></a><br />
So here we are, Wednesday night. Still no ATN blog. Yes, the bloggers do the writing, but the managing, the editing, the layout? That takes time. Time I feel like I don't have. I'm behind on another deadline, this one fixed, and I have three more looming just after that. Combine all that with work stress, and just a few hours ago, I only wanted to go fetal and cry. That or run away to the beach.<br />
<br />
Going fetal and crying, though, that's not much like me. There's nothing wrong with them, mind you. They're just not me. Escaping to the beach <i>is</i> me, but there's these pesky little obstacles in the way–I think they're called mountains. If I was going to find me, I was going to have to look here at home. So I sent a few rather sassy texts to my closest friends. That helped. I rustled up ingredients and cooked tonight's meal. That helped a little more. As we ate, we chatted and watched our kitten play. That definitely helped. By the time we opened the M&Ms, I felt like someone I could recognize as me. So much so that I opened my laptop to write.<br />
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Are the deadlines still there? Yep. The struggles of a working, single mom of 3? Likewise. All the disease and disaster, pain and death? Check, check, check, and check. None of that is likely to go away any time soon. And yet. For the way I've spent this evening, my regrets are exactly none. The bad stuff is going to come. At least this way, I can face it all as me.<br />
<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-39670321275730604882017-07-02T13:09:00.000-07:002017-07-02T13:53:56.270-07:00My Home in the World<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ua4Lh8O87zU/WVlLn11awFI/AAAAAAAAEW0/p95aPiBXCVYizINr_WB-aWBhZ7Gksf4rQCLcBGAs/s1600/Lahiri.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ua4Lh8O87zU/WVlLn11awFI/AAAAAAAAEW0/p95aPiBXCVYizINr_WB-aWBhZ7Gksf4rQCLcBGAs/s200/Lahiri.jpg" width="150" /></a>In her stunning memoir, <i>In Other Words</i>, Jhumpa Lahiri describes what was for her the painful duality of growing up between lands (India and the United States), languages (Bengali and English), and loves (family and writing). As her reflections unfold, she shows us that a third way, a way out of that pain, is possible. For her, that path is Italian, a language that opens up heretofore unknown, untried parts of her mind, body, and soul. Through Italian, she charts a way forward, one in which duality could become a good, desirable thing: "It's not possible to become another writer, but it might be possible to become two."<br />
<br />
I cannot say enough how much I loved this book. I love it like I love Jane Austen, like I love that first morning cup of coffee, like I love those rare shining moments when my pen translates my thoughts on the very first try. Her writing is finely wrought, worthy of a life richly lived. It also helped give new shape to my response when, for approximately the 1000th time, someone asked me a version of the tired question, "how did <i>you</i> end up <i>here</i>?"<br />
<br />
<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sfzi3wAWDD4/WVlLnAW8JcI/AAAAAAAAEWw/ApVIR4FC_E88tdiBnYFt0zT1RTXw6JXjgCEwYBhgL/s1600/Versailles.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1010" data-original-width="1515" height="212" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-sfzi3wAWDD4/WVlLnAW8JcI/AAAAAAAAEWw/ApVIR4FC_E88tdiBnYFt0zT1RTXw6JXjgCEwYBhgL/s320/Versailles.jpg" width="320" /></a>On the one hand, I can kind of see their point. I'm a Yankee born and bred; unlike many Americans, I am multilingual by choice, and I've lived in nearly a dozen different places from small-town America to Houston to Versailles (yes, yes, <i>that </i>Versailles). Given that, I guess I can kind of see why some might wonder that I am so happy to call this corner of Appalachia home.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hoLqVXCL5Io/WVlR0rs0d1I/AAAAAAAAEXE/YJfc6Gc0DNcEeUAj8FQnGebtjD78mrqwwCLcBGAs/s1600/IMG_4882.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1009" data-original-width="1600" height="201" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-hoLqVXCL5Io/WVlR0rs0d1I/AAAAAAAAEXE/YJfc6Gc0DNcEeUAj8FQnGebtjD78mrqwwCLcBGAs/s320/IMG_4882.jpg" width="320" /></a>On the other hand, I don't get it at all. Yes, I've called 3 countries, 5 states, 11 cities "home." I've left...and, more importantly, found...a piece of my soul in every single place. Why, then, should I only lay claim to one? There is a version of my best self basking on the <i>terrasse</i> of a Mediterranean <i>café</i>, another so ensconced in a book that I found myself unexpectedly snowed in (true story!). I can suit up and speak at the Université<i> Sorbonne </i><i>Nouvelle</i>, or I can throw on jeans, boots, and flannel to share my musings with a herd of Hereford cows.<br />
<br />
I am all these selves and more. They come from a lot of different places and taken together, sometimes those selves and places don't make a lot of sense. Do yours? I didn't think so. And yet. They're yours, right? Your places helped create you, just as Lahiri's form part of her and mine are shaping me. They morph and meld, grow and change, yet ultimately, remain ours. Ours to carry wherever we go. Ours to keep within our hearts, the true home where all our best selves live.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-85626203712637913792017-05-30T16:52:00.001-07:002017-05-31T11:12:24.720-07:00Fireflies and stars<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q5g0D_8swn8/WS4BMwPcKZI/AAAAAAAADUA/X-gj6A-Vrtsg46C51vNBN-NyC0w8QrpbACEw/s1600/IMG_4418.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1067" data-original-width="1600" height="212" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Q5g0D_8swn8/WS4BMwPcKZI/AAAAAAAADUA/X-gj6A-Vrtsg46C51vNBN-NyC0w8QrpbACEw/s320/IMG_4418.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Sometimes it's hard to tell stars and fireflies apart, especially if your vision's clouded. Yes, I know that fireflies usually glow green and dart about and that their light appears to be a whole lot closer, namely because it is. But if you take your glasses off to have a good old-fashioned cry, as I did a couple weeks ago, well, it's pretty easy to confuse them. Not that this confusion is necessarily a bad thing – after all, what I saw through tear-rimmed lashes was a glorious blur of twinkling lights.<br />
<br />
And Lord knows I needed both glory and light that late spring night. I'd been butting heads with one of my kids, watching something eat away at her before my eyes, and it didn't seem like there was anything I could do. If anything, in fact, I kept making things worse, which is about as bad a feeling as a mama can ever have. So yeah, I needed light that night, and plenty of it. I sat on my front porch praying for guidance, praying for help and a sense of hope. I got my answer in the form of fireflies and stars.<br />
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As I sat there watching, my tears slowly dried. Then I got to thinking about what stars and fireflies really are. Fireflies are awesome and all, but, truth be told, they're <i>bugs</i>. Black, wiggly, six-legged, flying <i>bugs</i>. As for stars, well, they're balls of heat and gas and nuclear reactions. Look too closely at either and you risk losing the sense of beauty and wonder they instill (unless, perhaps, you happen to be some sort of entomologist or astronomer, which I'm not).<br />
<br />
I think it might be kind of the same with our relationships, family and all the rest. If we look too closely, we might lose the forest for the trees. Yes, we should keep on looking, and yes, we need to give those we love the full extent of our attention and care. Just don't get hung up on the details. Focus too much on atoms and antennae, and you'll miss out on the glow. Stay watchful, but as you do, don't forget to cherish the miracle of this other life which for some incredible reason, you are blessed enough to share.<br />
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<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VCSG8ptJY9A/WS4BLvkBumI/AAAAAAAADUE/h-OCRSdoMDACprokJMMi2dnAvxcXIGSQwCEw/s1600/nousnou-iwasaki-25724.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1065" data-original-width="1600" height="265" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VCSG8ptJY9A/WS4BLvkBumI/AAAAAAAADUE/h-OCRSdoMDACprokJMMi2dnAvxcXIGSQwCEw/s400/nousnou-iwasaki-25724.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
Step back.<br />
<br />
Look again.<br />
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Firefly or a star?<br />
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Does it matter?<br />
<br />
Hold it loosely.<br />
<br />
Let it shine.<br />
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-25926629890776215872017-05-14T16:09:00.001-07:002022-10-20T18:40:55.576-07:00Great-Aunt Jean and Grandma Ruth<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dzdQeCVcMts/WRjcPsX9MUI/AAAAAAAADSU/zmOYDVddwHEOGrPTvzI-H6tsR-YdS76JwCK4B/s1600/Auntjean.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="160" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dzdQeCVcMts/WRjcPsX9MUI/AAAAAAAADSU/zmOYDVddwHEOGrPTvzI-H6tsR-YdS76JwCK4B/s200/Auntjean.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>my great-aunt Jean</i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
My great-aunt Jean died this week. It's a loss for all of us, including my mom. She had a special connection with Jean, and not just because Jean brightened and warmed the world for everyone she met. And it's not that my mom didn't have a great mom of her own –she did–, but Jean gave her something too, something no one else could, or did. This post is in honor of all the Jeans, the women who, perhaps unbeknownst to them, helped our moms raise the rest of us up into the men and women we are today.<br />
<br />
For me, one of those women is my father's mom, Grandma Ruth. For a long time, she was "just" Grandma to me, but as our family got more complicated, the addition of her first name made it easier to keep everyone straight. I often worry that Grandma died without knowing the influence she had on my life, partly because I hadn't yet lived enough of that life to understand it myself. I didn't realize that all the things that make me, well, me, they have to come from someone, and one of those someones is her. She's been on my mind a lot lately, and Mother's Day seems a good time to give credit where credit is due.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t3iUoCOO2_c/WRjd8XRGeQI/AAAAAAAADSk/cFWiQ6Wz_dcZLIocmmezNCwHLvEdwP3EwCK4B/s1600/3generations.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="219" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-t3iUoCOO2_c/WRjd8XRGeQI/AAAAAAAADSk/cFWiQ6Wz_dcZLIocmmezNCwHLvEdwP3EwCK4B/s320/3generations.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Me with the women who made me: Grandma Ruth, Mom, and Grandma Florence<br />(more about Grandma Florence in a future post...) </i></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Here are three of Grandma Ruth's gifts to me:<br />
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1) She showed me I can be my own person. Be a Democrat in a red Republican sea. Cheer on the Red Sox when just about everyone else is wearing Yankee blue. Camp in an Argosy when other travelers are towing an Airstream. If you're more a writer than a farmer's wife, so be it. She actually got to live the dream of seeing her name in print.<br />
<br />
2) Music, reading, writing, art. She loved all these things, and judging by a girlhood diary, she loved them her whole life through. We even loved and loathed some of the same things. We found ourselves baffled by modern art, transported by soaring arias. <i>Little Women </i>is the book that defined our lives. We cried when Beth died, admired Marmie's and Meg's steadfast motherly devotion, frowned at Amy's frivolity, and most all, wanted not-so-secretly to be Jo. I, like Jo, like my grandmother, have filled diary after diary and now, however tentatively, I too am trying to make my way in the writerly world.<br />
<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZfbMUAExkZI/WRjdnKbD4rI/AAAAAAAADSc/QQlXf2QUWs4NolOf_u_ILARdCWZmuCuigCK4B/s1600/Grandmaandherboys.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZfbMUAExkZI/WRjdnKbD4rI/AAAAAAAADSc/QQlXf2QUWs4NolOf_u_ILARdCWZmuCuigCK4B/s320/Grandmaandherboys.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Grandma Ruth with three of her boys, my uncle Doug, my uncle Steve, and my dad</i></td></tr>
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3) I never thought that families had to look or be any one particular way. Her father left their family in a time when such things weren't really done. I imagine that led to a different, harder life than the one she once dreamed of and deserved. Yet she grew her family all the same, through birth, foster care, and adoption. She wanted to be Jo March so much that she literally filled her house with boys. I parted ways with her there, certain I had at least one daughter out there in the world (turns out I have two!), but I kept the idea that families can be born not just of blood, but also shared experiences, lives built in community, and above all, love. I may not have grasped it at the time, but my desire to expand my own family through adoption surely had its roots in her example.<br />
<br />I could talk about so many other things I shared with Grandma Ruth. Shared loathings: migraines, fear of heights, how computer solitaire won't let you cheat. Shared loves: key lime pie, coffee, black labs and white-faced cows. And yet, we used to butt heads so bad. Sooooo bad. I was young and foolish and so let myself be impatient, selfish, even unkind, sure she could never understand the person I was and wanted to become. It's hard to admit that, much less put it into words, yet here I am, following her lead to do just that. I don't know if they read blogs in heaven, but if they do, Grandma Ruth, this one's for you.<br /></div>Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-53519992508493288922017-04-12T17:23:00.000-07:002017-04-12T17:23:34.725-07:00Where are you from?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f9kGtEg9Ukc/WO6_wGYkHJI/AAAAAAAADPo/5lCkrFIUclMkakB-QUeX7KkU-Z87sxLugCEw/s1600/sam-ferrara-117223.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="80" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-f9kGtEg9Ukc/WO6_wGYkHJI/AAAAAAAADPo/5lCkrFIUclMkakB-QUeX7KkU-Z87sxLugCEw/s200/sam-ferrara-117223.jpg" width="200" /></a></div>
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It's been a while since I've posted, and in a sense, you still have to wait, for the words of this post are not my own. Then again, can we really say that words belong to anyone? It seems to me they somehow belong at once to no one and to everyone. Anyway. I say these words aren't mine because this short but evocative piece <span style="text-align: center;">comes from another writer, Isabelle Flükiger of Switzerland. I loved it so much that I've been wanting to share it, but many of my readers and social media followers don't speak French. So... I translated it. If you want to read it in the original French, however, please do by following the link below the photo. The original is always better!</span><br />
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<a href="http://isabellefluekiger.blogspot.com/2016/02/le-pays-dont-on-vient.html">Le pays dont on vient</a></div>
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The Place You're From</div>
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The place you're from is like your family. You didn't choose it. You might sometimes be ashamed of it, but it's like your mother: only you can criticize. It's where you learned your first lessons, when to speak and when to remain silent, when to laugh and what to do. It shaped your customs: Coca cola and apple pie, states' rights and the Electoral College.* You might not always agree, but it's ingrained in you. You carry this baggage with you in the world. It's your point of reference, how you make sense of things. The country you're from is like your family: you start out being part of it; it ends up being part of you.</div>
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<i><span style="font-size: x-small;">*Here the French text makes reference to very specifically Swiss foods and institutions. It was fun thinking of equivalents in American English! Also, I know "pays" literally means "country," but it just didn't feel right to me here...</span></i></div>
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-51692489119084939242017-02-20T16:29:00.001-08:002022-10-20T18:38:36.831-07:00Please don't yell at meI mean it.<br />
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<br />
Don't yell at me.<br />
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Don't tell me I don't care enough.<br />
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Don't tell me I care too much.<br />
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Don't tell me that I don't know or don't understand. It's true that I don't always understand, but at least I'm trying to know.<br />
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I know that children are the victims of policies they didn't create and cannot begin to understand. I saw two children, already cleared for immigration, held at the the border (briefly, thank God) when they were 6 and 3. Six. And. Three.<br />
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I also know that other people are scared. There were more Islamist extremist attacks in France in the 1990s than there are today. I know all too well that feeling of hypervigilance, that jumping at every unexpected sight and sound. I was there.<br />
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I know that we blow apart mountains and poison streams and leave miners to cope with incurable disease, all in the name of prosperity. After all, I live in Appalachia.<br />
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I also know how it looks when those in power leave a place to die, take away the only high-paying jobs, put nothing in their place. Remember, I live in Appalachia.<br />
<br />
I'm trying to get it, truly I am. It's just that yelling at me doesn't help. It's not driving me further to the left or further to the right. It's not even driving me to the center. It's driving me out of the conversation altogether, and I'm pretty sure I'm not alone.<br />
<br />
"Fine," the angry ones might say, "Go."<br />
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"Fine," I want to say back, "I will."<br />
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There's just one problem: if there is no place for us here, then where?<br />
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-26164020561297811482017-01-13T07:10:00.000-08:002017-01-14T18:51:14.497-08:00The other woman at the table<div>
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The first time they sat down together was not a happy one. Yes, they were seated at the sturdy old table that had made its way from her grandparents' kitchen to her own, the table that knew generations of joy and love. Of course it had seen its fair share of tears and hurts as well, and on that chilly afternoon, it had to absorb a whole lot more. This was not, I repeat, a happy occasion.<br />
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Maybe if she'd been less frightened, she would have been able to see the other woman clearly. But she <i>was </i>frightened, the kind of fear that feels like certain soul death. In that state, how was she supposed to see anything other than another one of <i>them</i>, the ones who seemed bent on destroying families? Talk about intolerable pain. Talk about an enemy.</div>
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M7WCivfeXLo/WHWR_Hj5HGI/AAAAAAAADMY/A_egCy-4me0_lCR5mFOpb5Bgj_1LS-QmQCEw/s1600/lasagne.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-M7WCivfeXLo/WHWR_Hj5HGI/AAAAAAAADMY/A_egCy-4me0_lCR5mFOpb5Bgj_1LS-QmQCEw/s200/lasagne.jpg" width="200" /></a>Nearly a decade later, the two women sat down again, this time at the other woman's table. It was a frigid day, colder even than the first, but this time warmed, both by plates of hot lasagna and the spark of recognition that ignites when two people truly meet. Their words traveled from their childhoods to France, then on into the mountains, raising children and building houses along the way. Both could pass on Coke, but coffee? They'd rather die than live without it, just as long as it's black. They're both daddy's girls who find themselves alternately amused, chagrined, and flattered that they now sound exactly like their moms. Their grandmothers were the best bakers in the world, and both women have spent <strike>hours</strike> days trying to recreate those treats. Each has been forced to lead when she'd rather be hiding backstage, and life has dealt them both hands that sometimes, honestly, they'd rather not have to play. Yet here they are, playing those hands anyway, because, well, that's just what they do.<br />
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What changed, you ask? Simply this: one moved beyond her fear and learned to play <i>with</i>, not against, the other.<br />
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-10284598087178147212016-12-26T16:40:00.002-08:002016-12-26T16:40:38.143-08:00Work in progress<a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6Fh2R6dQ29k/WGGx71N-_OI/AAAAAAAADLw/HqeXHaIxVlgngNx5vkaMkAmwHiPI1nDzQCLcB/s1600/IMG_3977.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6Fh2R6dQ29k/WGGx71N-_OI/AAAAAAAADLw/HqeXHaIxVlgngNx5vkaMkAmwHiPI1nDzQCLcB/s200/IMG_3977.jpg" width="150" /></a><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Oagu7EaGN1I/WGGxejsveAI/AAAAAAAADLo/_b3--qlWKIAWWWPwrsd5hcI62q9qXJTGwCLcB/s1600/IMG_3971.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Oagu7EaGN1I/WGGxejsveAI/AAAAAAAADLo/_b3--qlWKIAWWWPwrsd5hcI62q9qXJTGwCLcB/s200/IMG_3971.jpg" width="200" /></a>The semester is over, my annual respiratory infection is gone, and I'm now in New York getting some much needed R & R and holiday cheer. With any luck, the black cat will be back soon.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w4vrnbPyy_U/WGGvdi3GcQI/AAAAAAAADLc/RTqkFGNMEG8rI6vdO7nsKlUXQ9hndmkNgCLcB/s1600/Attachment-Trauma-logo-header-small.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-w4vrnbPyy_U/WGGvdi3GcQI/AAAAAAAADLc/RTqkFGNMEG8rI6vdO7nsKlUXQ9hndmkNgCLcB/s1600/Attachment-Trauma-logo-header-small.png" /></a>Meanwhile, I'm (finally) getting started on my other gig, blogging with the <a href="http://wp.me/p6GBcn-tb">Attachment & Trauma Network</a>. It's a cause I really believe in, so I encourage all my readers to click the link and enjoy.<br />
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-1649836185426414382016-12-04T16:03:00.001-08:002016-12-06T07:12:42.441-08:00Searching for a starfish<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jHEm0QLkSBg/WESgvMS-nnI/AAAAAAAADJI/VWWPfQoXDngzCHv1Hsrf-k6qqeZgn8GTgCLcB/s1600/star.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="146" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-jHEm0QLkSBg/WESgvMS-nnI/AAAAAAAADJI/VWWPfQoXDngzCHv1Hsrf-k6qqeZgn8GTgCLcB/s200/star.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">You probably know some version of Loren Eiseley's story, the one where a child is throwing starfish into the ocean one by one, only to have an adult chide him for wasting his time. After all, he will never save them all, right? The child, however, has the last word, that his efforts <i>do </i>matter to each starfish he saves. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">It's a good story, albeit <strike>beaten to death by motivational speakers</strike> slightly overused, and it's not a bad response to November 2016, a month I generally think of as follows:</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tlqzlC4V3AQ/WESgwHusVlI/AAAAAAAADJM/M5rw0bXbQEkbSbB1IOK_G6Xnz08blAQKgCLcB/s1600/IMG_3855.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tlqzlC4V3AQ/WESgwHusVlI/AAAAAAAADJM/M5rw0bXbQEkbSbB1IOK_G6Xnz08blAQKgCLcB/s200/IMG_3855.jpg" width="200" /></span></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">I am not just talking about THAT day. I might have been able to withstand that. Doubtful, sure, but it's what I'd like to believe. </span><br />
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Pnh8WfVYXSs/WESguRwAlXI/AAAAAAAADJE/qaD-WW42IJIga2-04La2Qt0JjqkAI8mZwCLcB/s1600/IMG_3385.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"></span></a><br />
<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Pnh8WfVYXSs/WESguRwAlXI/AAAAAAAADJE/qaD-WW42IJIga2-04La2Qt0JjqkAI8mZwCLcB/s1600/IMG_3385.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="146" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Pnh8WfVYXSs/WESguRwAlXI/AAAAAAAADJE/qaD-WW42IJIga2-04La2Qt0JjqkAI8mZwCLcB/s200/IMG_3385.jpg" width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">No, my fracture came a few days later when Vesbo, subject of </span><a href="http://penseesduchatnoir.blogspot.com/2016/08/why-are-they-always-orange.html" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">Why are they always orange?</a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">, crossed the Rainbow Bridge. "I just really needed to save him," I sobbed on the phone to my parents. "And I failed."</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">Eventually, I cried (most) of the tears I had to cry. In their place, nothing. Yes, I had my friends, my family, my students, and they all held me together more than they will ever know. But deep down inside? That's where that big dark space was born.</span></span><br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IF7-4szp828/WESk3fBusrI/AAAAAAAADJU/Z6OgtZpmBHogooZbMlhic2RCe0kqMFY7ACLcB/s1600/IMG_3852%2B%25281%2529.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-IF7-4szp828/WESk3fBusrI/AAAAAAAADJU/Z6OgtZpmBHogooZbMlhic2RCe0kqMFY7ACLcB/s200/IMG_3852%2B%25281%2529.jpg" style="cursor: move;" width="148" /></a><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">Then I opened
yesterday’s mail. One of the envelopes, larger than the others, bore the return
address Open Arms India. I eagerly opened it, and there I saw her. Our sponsored child, holding a picture of… I looked closer…us. There we were,
my family grasped in the hands of a child with a phenomenal smile. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Something in me
started to spark, a piece of my inner power grid coming back
on line. I looked at that smile and thought maybe, just maybe, we were playing
some small part in making that light shine. For the first time in weeks, I felt
something like belief. </span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: inherit;">I don't know what the future holds, and that thought scares me half to death. So does the fact that no matter what I want or what I try, I won't be able to save every cat or every child. </span></span><span style="font-family: "arial" , "helvetica" , sans-serif;">But maybe, every once in a while, one of them
will be my starfish. </span><br />
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-47947908965449600822016-11-04T17:23:00.000-07:002016-11-04T17:24:41.686-07:00On (not) being a writer<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-768Qwd7EE7E/WB0idKIwNPI/AAAAAAAADHw/93LmwhrEXyIpMFCky0Jnkur8iSP2Dyb6ACEw/s1600/IMG_3718.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="158" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-768Qwd7EE7E/WB0idKIwNPI/AAAAAAAADHw/93LmwhrEXyIpMFCky0Jnkur8iSP2Dyb6ACEw/s200/IMG_3718.jpg" width="200" /></a>I don't know when I first thought I wanted to be a writer.<br />
<br />
Scratch that.<br />
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I don't know when I started writing.<br />
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Scratch that too.<br />
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I am not a writer. I don't even know if I want to be one. I just write. Always have, always will.<br />
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<a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6HztVqcXg8g/WB0ibYI68oI/AAAAAAAADHs/S-JQga2sFfgW7iN4oVdel53w1nkgnDoGACEw/s1600/IMG_3721.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-6HztVqcXg8g/WB0ibYI68oI/AAAAAAAADHs/S-JQga2sFfgW7iN4oVdel53w1nkgnDoGACEw/s200/IMG_3721.jpg" width="150" /></a>Ahhhh... Now we're on to something. Not that the nature of this "something" is especially clear, of course. After all, it's not as if I've never seen my name in print. As an academic, I have published a fair number of articles and book chapters over the years. That counts, right? Then there is this blog, whose posts do not appear magically out of cyber-thin air. Quite the contrary– much like academic writing, channeling these thoughts through pen onto paper actually requires fairly serious butt-in-chair time (yes, I am that odd creature who writes most of her blog posts longhand).<br />
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Okay then. Perhaps I am in fact a writer. Cool. Well, cool except for one little problem. I haven't yet written the thing I want to write. I am possessed by a pretty huge, mostly true story that's just dying to get out. I'm talking wakes me up in the middle of the night just to remind me it's still here. In case, you know, my memory was wiped by space aliens or I somehow otherwise managed to forget. As if. Anyway, it's here, it's real, and I bet at least a few people would read it if I could just coax it out. Yep. Coax. As badly as it wants out in the dead of night, it is awfully shy when it sees my open notebook. Go figure.<br />
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This push-and-pull has been going on for a while now. As in years. And it's time for it to end. This story is going to get the attention it deserves, and not just "when I have the time" (as if <i>that </i>were a thing!). To make that happen, I've done two things. One, I found a writing group. Well, it found me. Point is, I now have a safe and structured writing home where my story and I will be accountable to each other. And two, I've decided to nurture other people's stories by writing for and managing the ATN blog. ATN stands for The Attachment & Trauma Network, an organization of not-so-ordinary angels who have thrown many a lifeline to families just like mine.<br />
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So... stay tuned. It's going to happen. I <i>will</i> wrestle my story into a book or die trying. Meanwhile, please, check us out at ATN. It's an amazing place.<br />
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<a href="http://www.attachmenttraumanetwork.org/" target="_blank">The Attachment & Trauma Network</a></div>
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-48428543896420141582016-10-19T18:35:00.001-07:002022-10-20T18:36:13.909-07:00Things we (shouldn't) take for granted<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div>
The other night, we were invited to an awards ceremony at my workplace. We didn't think twice about it until the announcer started listing the participating schools. We realized that many families drove an hour, even two, to a place we see so often that well, we've stopped actually seeing it. As we walked to our car, parked in a nearby lot that only an "insider" would know, I commented that I hadn't realized this would be such a big deal. One of my kids said something like, "that's because it's just always here."<br />
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Two days later, our conversation still won't let me go. When did my privileged place in the world become so...I don't know...ordinary? I know that's probably just the dual effect of habit and of time, but still, that doesn't make it okay.<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7AAvIMrRUUo/WAbBqfsqIEI/AAAAAAAADGo/iECcUo-dZBcwFDbUKjl9I3qaI_9bF7V9QCLcB/s1600/IMG_3517.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="141" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7AAvIMrRUUo/WAbBqfsqIEI/AAAAAAAADGo/iECcUo-dZBcwFDbUKjl9I3qaI_9bF7V9QCLcB/s200/IMG_3517.jpg" width="200" /></a>I mean, look at it. This is an American college campus, which are among some of the prettiest spots I've ever seen (and I've seen an awful lot). That this one is full of red brick buildings –a personal favorite– and located in the beautiful Appalachian mountains is the icing on an already delectable cake.</div>
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Besides, being here means I get to work with a lot of incredible people. My administration supports me, my colleagues sustain me, my students motivate me to get out of bed each and every day. No, it's not perfect (we all have our dark places), and yes, this Francophile with a Yankee attitude has days where she probably creates more problems than she solves, but hey, that's all part of the adventure.<br />
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<a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VjCtpz1CYaU/WAbBuwNkmvI/AAAAAAAADGs/1nQZcIGOszsf-VjV06Lw_DsKwZaba8S7ACLcB/s1600/IMG_3640.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-VjCtpz1CYaU/WAbBuwNkmvI/AAAAAAAADGs/1nQZcIGOszsf-VjV06Lw_DsKwZaba8S7ACLcB/s200/IMG_3640.jpg" width="150" /></a>The best part, though, is that I am getting away with an epic scam. I love languages, especially French. I love to read. I love to write. And by some miracle (okay, a miracle plus a PhD...), I have stumbled into a profession where people will actually put me in a room full of books and pay me do all three. There's even a coffeemaker, for crying out loud! Do I do it perfectly? No. I don't always even do it very well, or at least not as well as I'd like. But I come at it with energy and passion and a constant desire to improve. The result? I feel like I've won the lottery, only better. Unlike plain, cold, hard cash, this the kind of thing that stays with you forever.<br />
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<br />Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-91097408909046726542016-10-07T10:10:00.002-07:002022-10-20T18:34:52.599-07:00Yeah, this is real too<span style="background-color: white; color: #7f7f7f; font-family: "puritan";">A child, maybe 12, moves across the parking lot. Progress is slow, weighed down as he is by a leg cast and bulging backpack. He places his crutches carefully, looking up every so often, only to drop his eyes again when he sees how much parking lot remains.</span><br />
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The other parents stare, first at him, then at his mother, waiting alone by her car. </div>
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"How long has he been crossing this lot, anyway?"</div>
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"I'd never let my kid get away with that."</div>
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"Bless him. That'd stop if he just got a little extra attention and love."</div>
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"That kid needs a good whipping. Then he'd move!"</div>
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If you are horrified, you should be.</div>
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If you think this cannot possibly be real, you are probably right. At least I hope you are. After all, what kind of person would criticize a child so obviously in pain? What kind of jerk would blame his parents because a broken leg had slowed him down?</div>
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Yet thousands of families endure something similar every day. Every. Single. Day. Not because of something visible, something obvious like a broken leg, but because their child suffers from wounds unseen, some of which were inflicted literally from the very first. Some combination of hunger, abuse, trauma, and neglect caused the child's brain to develop in unexpected ways, with a broad range of maladaptive behaviors to match. </div>
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For parents of these kids, the phrase "pick your battles" takes on a whole new meaning. They have to pick so often and so quickly –yet somehow also carefully–, that I can just about guarantee they're not picking the ones you want. Yet trust me, they believe in love and discipline and everything else that goes into making a family work. It's just that their normal looks way different from yours. They can't waste time apologizing for something that isn't their fault. Like the mom whose son is wobbling around with cast and crutches, they have bigger fish to fry.</div>
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Remember, the support you give the family is love you show the child.</div>
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-87317386655454461562016-09-10T08:54:00.001-07:002016-10-04T17:12:43.576-07:00Wait, WHAT?! I agree with Glenn Beck?!<div>
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It was early one fall semester, a few years ago. My elementary French class and I were still getting to know each other when the ballplayer in the front row piped up with something straight out of Glenn Beck. My reaction was swift, and to me, predictable.<br />
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"I prefer to think for myself." </div>
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"He just asks questions," came the reply, faintly tinged with what I perceived as aggression.</div>
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"Great," I thought. "One of <i>those</i>. Let's just get through this semester. It's not like I'll ever see him again."</div>
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I was wrong, and thankfully so. The student went on to minor in French and remains one of the best and brightest I have ever had. Mind you, there were plenty of things about which we never could agree, but we kept talking and learning from each other all the same. Those conversations became one of the highlights of my week, and even now remind me why I became a professor. Idealistic and cliched as it may sound, I want to open minds, <strike>including</strike> especially my own.</div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4sFtWnVqZOI/V9NYK4AKKwI/AAAAAAAADDY/8mPZr3dUAV0U4C-hzX74DIqvo6_axHwQQCK4B/s1600/T-magazine-logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-4sFtWnVqZOI/V9NYK4AKKwI/AAAAAAAADDY/8mPZr3dUAV0U4C-hzX74DIqvo6_axHwQQCK4B/s200/T-magazine-logo.jpg" width="165" /></a>Time passed. Seasons changed. My opinion of Glenn Beck, however, did not. That is, until the other day, when in the New York Times I read his Op-Ed, <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/09/07/opinion/glenn-beck-empathy-for-black-lives-matter.html?_r=0" target="_blank">Empathy for Black Lives Matter</a>. Here's the part that got me:</div>
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After the massacre, I invited several Black Lives Matter believers on my show. I got to know them as people — on and off air — and invited them back again. These individuals are decent, hardworking, patriotic Americans. We don’t agree on everything, certainly not on politics; but are we not more than politics? I refuse to define each of them based on the worst among them. No movement is monolithic. The individuals I met that day are not “Black Lives Matter”; they are black Americans who feel disenfranchised and aggrieved; they are believers; they are my neighbors and my fellow citizens.</div>
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We need to listen to one another, as human beings, and try to understand one another’s pain. Empathy is not acknowledging or conceding that the pain and anger others feel is justified. Empathy is acknowledging someone else’s pain and anger while feeling for them as human beings — even, and maybe especially, when we don’t necessarily agree or understand them.</div>
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I haven't followed the story much since, but I can easily imagine Beck was excoriated on all sides. In his camp because our heroes are supposed to be unchanging monoliths; in camps closer to my own, because, well, he's Glenn Beck. Never mind what he actually said, right? He's just another one of <i>them</i>. Others near my camp may have read, even liked it, only to dismiss it as too little, too late. </div>
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Now that last part, I get. I really do. I almost went there myself. After all, how many times have I felt that way? How many times have I caused others to feel that way about me? </div>
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But...</div>
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Am I the newest member of the Glenn Beck fan club? Nope. I don't even agree with everything he wrote here. But I have to admire his bravery in extending a hand, knowing full well that many would just as soon slap or even sever it, anything but risk a stranger's touch.<br />
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Surely each of us, in our own little corners of the world, can do the same. </div>
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-22109241505724210302016-08-20T20:09:00.002-07:002022-10-20T18:32:19.783-07:00Why are they always orange?To be fair, it's not that they are all orange. After all, the spirit animal of this blog is a black cat, named for my handsome man in a tux, Lucky, and Clawdette is our second calico after Calliope. But there seems to be a disproportionate amount of orange, and it always comes when we least expect it.<br />
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<br />First, there was Claude. A colleague found this little ball of fur wandering on campus, and had a feeling we'd take him in. She was right. We meant to find him a home, but, well, we already had. He was the first house cat my daughters ever had (longtime residents Lucky and Calliope mostly ignored our decision to add human children to the household). We were heartbroken when only a couple of years later, we lost Claude to feline leukemia.<br />
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<div style="text-align: left;"><br />Then there was Norbert, the subject of <a href="http://penseesduchatnoir.blogspot.com/2015/12/everything-i-need-to-know-i-learned.html" target="_blank">Everything I need to know, I learned from an orange cat</a> and <a href="http://penseesduchatnoir.blogspot.com/2015/07/sometimes-cat-is-orange.html" target="_blank">Sometimes, the cat is orange</a> Another colleague found him scaling a brick wall outside her home. You couldn't miss him if you tried, and honestly, why would you try? He was larger than life, and for a while, larger than was strictly healthy. He and his person were inseparable- the only thing he never did for her was learn to walk on a leash. Though he lived with cancer longer than anyone could have reasonably expected, he finally succumbed and our hearts broke again.</div>
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After that, we had a tacit pact to keep the resident cat population at two, and we held it there for a while. Then we started to see the strays around town and I found myself saying, "ok, God, if you send us another cat, I think we're ready. Just please don't let it be orange."</div>
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<br />I had to save him, but was afraid of hurting our hearts. <br />
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His name, the younger members of the family decided, is Vesbo.<br />
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">From left to right, top to bottom: Claude at Christmas, young Norbert, Vesbo (also known as Beau) </span></div>
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-43522079643903512412016-08-03T09:44:00.002-07:002022-10-20T18:30:14.961-07:00The psychology of shouldersI've never woken up well from anesthesia. Not when I was a teenager having my knee scoped. Not when I was having that same knee reconstructed whilst in grad school. And not when I had a tendon in my right shoulder repaired. So when, on the afternoon of June 23, I woke to the vague sensation that my left arm had been strapped to my body, followed by the far less vague sensation of nausea, I did what any sensible person would. I went back to sleep.<br />
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Who knows how much time passed before I woke again. This time the evidence was clear. I was still nauseous, and my arm was most definitely strapped to my body. The nurse, who needed me awake to send me home, caught my eye. I decided to ask the obvious question.</div>
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Far too out of sorts to object to being called "honey" (for once...), I asked to see my doctor. I had come in for a simple tendon release, the kind of procedure that barely makes a blip on the radar. The surgeon, however, confirmed the nurse's statement. My rotator cuff had been completely torn.</div>
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After a week spent deliriously cycling through Percocet, broken sleep, and pain, the staples were removed and I started physical therapy.</div>
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And with it, unexpectedly, the very near loss of my mind. </div>
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It wasn't just the pain, though there was plenty of that. It wasn't just the blinding frustration of feeling clumsy and useless. It wasn't just the realization that there was no way I could safely travel to New York one more time before school. And it wasn't even the pile of work accumulating as I sat helplessly by, my shoulder encased in ice.</div>
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It was that single, insidious, two-word question: "what if?" As in, what if it never gets better?</div>
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To make matters worse, I found myself robbed of my failsafe coping mechanisms. Writing? A leftie with her left arm in a sling can't exactly enjoy the soothing flow of ink on paper. Music? I'm a pianist, and while I've seen people perform marvels one-handed, I'm not one of them. And running? Completely off limits. </div>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I6vUAFCDIio/V8uWRGE4NDI/AAAAAAAADC0/mXpEdMNREYIw6GRaC3Wp6pxn3jxna4kCgCK4B/s1600/IMG_3313.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-I6vUAFCDIio/V8uWRGE4NDI/AAAAAAAADC0/mXpEdMNREYIw6GRaC3Wp6pxn3jxna4kCgCK4B/s200/IMG_3313.jpg" width="150" /></a>This may sound melodramatic, but if demons are real, this is what they tell you: "your life as you know it is over." And because your demon-silencing mechanisms are out of order, you start to listen. It gets very, very dark, and no matter what you do, the "what-if" demons won't shut their foul little mouths. Before I knew it, I was down on myself for feeling down, proof if ever there was that mental states are not something people can necessarily control!</div>
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Thankfully, the mantra we try to teach children affect by trauma is true: "this too shall pass." I'm on a long road- rotator cuffs don't heal overnight, and wounded souls have an unpredictable timetable all their own- but my life once again feels like it is...literally...in my hands. </div>
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-7110977170008416072016-07-22T16:04:00.002-07:002022-10-20T18:29:39.396-07:00Don't tell us it isn't real<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
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<span face=""helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif">The year was 2008. After months of following the presidential campaign, I finally gave in and covered my "Ready for Hillary" sticker with one supporting Obama. Yes, I lived in the Bible Belt, surrounded by a pool of political red, but I can't really say as I cared. After all, my political leanings have never exactly been a well-kept secret, no matter where I've lived. </span></div>
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Then one hot summer's night, I was watching middle schoolers playing softball. The one I know best is a born athlete who loves the game, but that night, things began to drag as both teams ran out of pitchers. In desperation, they pulled this girl from her usual spot at second to try to close out the game. It wasn't pretty, but she did it. The final inning came mercifully to an end. </div>
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That's when I heard the guy shouting. He insulted the officials, the coaches, and yes, even the players, honing in quickly on the closing pitcher. <span face=""helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif">Admittedly, the closing pitcher did not have her best game, and admittedly, she was </span><span face=""helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">easy to spot, being one of the only brown girls in the entire league. But that does not explain why, on a team of twelve,</span><span face=""helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);"> she and I were the only ones followed to the parking lot, or why we were treated to a fresh level of invective when he saw my Obama bumper sticker. </span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">Except... Except, of course, it does. It explains it all. </span><span style="-webkit-text-size-adjust: auto; background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">We were there. We heard every last ugly word. </span></div>
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<span face=""helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif" style="background-color: rgba(255, 255, 255, 0);">This isn't even close to the worst example you'll ever hear, of course. It isn't even the worst one people close to me have ever lived. But it is one reason why you can't tell us that racism doesn't exist. We can't hear you over the yelling. </span></div>
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-43312251599053515212016-07-03T19:12:00.002-07:002016-07-22T16:11:01.793-07:00What to do when you can't write...When you've learned it's going to be more like 2 months than 2 weeks until your arm will be strong enough for you to face the "empty order" of the page, what is a writer to do?<br />
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Simple. </div>
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1) Heal. </div>
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2) Read. </div>
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3) Share. </div>
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Thanks to the writers and friends who are keeping me company on the road to recovery, and especially to <span style="font-family: "helvetica neue light" , , "helvetica" , "arial" , sans-serif;">George Ella Lyon, who gifted me...us...with these words:</span></div>
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-57855010860549210152016-06-22T15:09:00.002-07:002016-06-22T15:09:33.241-07:00Black cat down a pawThe black cat has ideas. Lots of them. Thanks to a fantastic break from my usual routine, my brain now somewhat resembles that of an actual feline chasing a laser pointer. I might still be looking for my voice, and yeah, I'm wondering if this might be how it feels to have ADHD, but man, I have a lot to say!<br />
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<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ngKIUALkBBo/V2sF5JS44zI/AAAAAAAAB_Y/9iC9-4Az7tgmiaWntcB7WtELk1WFBxqxgCLcB/s1600/611M19raGNL._SX258_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ngKIUALkBBo/V2sF5JS44zI/AAAAAAAAB_Y/9iC9-4Az7tgmiaWntcB7WtELk1WFBxqxgCLcB/s200/611M19raGNL._SX258_BO1%252C204%252C203%252C200_.jpg" width="164" /></a>Unfortunately, I can't say it all just yet, not just because of the whole where's-Waldo game I'm playing with my voice, but also and mostly because I have a torn tendon in my left shoulder, which happens to be on the same side as my writing hand. If I don't get it surgically repaired soon, well, I prefer not to follow that particular train of thought. So if you're reading this, please send thoughts, prayers, positive energy, whatever it is you normally send.</div>
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Meanwhile, here is a preview of possible coming attractions:</div>
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<u>5 Things I Learned Grading AP French (that I might write about more later)</u></div>
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<li>We need to put ourselves and others in situations where we can all be our best possible selves.</li>
<li>Some episodes in our lives put us both wholly in and wholly out of our comfort zones. That can be an energizing place to be.</li>
<li>Even introverts are not meant to be wholly solitary. One of my new friends put it perfectly... I'm an introvert learning to be an extravert. Glad to know I'm not alone!</li>
<li>Our culture needs to start valuing labor in human terms. Our work should serve people, not the almighty dollar.</li>
<li>In spite of the scary state of the world, there are places where people of many backgrounds come together to do good work. I believe this spirit of collaboration and community is meant to grow and spread.</li>
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Finally, to conclude, a pair of unrelated bonus thoughts that the black cat may chase down later, when she gets her left paw back:</div>
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<li>Thoreau wasn't wrong. We should all go back to the woods at least once in a while. And turn off your #$%^ cell phone when you do!</li>
<li>It gets harder and harder to leave my personal empire state of mind, aka Upstate New York. I don't know what to do with that just yet, but I know it's there.</li>
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Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-4616511109460542552016-06-08T19:34:00.001-07:002022-10-20T18:27:48.899-07:00Finding a voiceI want to give a voice to people whose problems our culture would rather ignore: the mentally ill, especially children, and women, especially those victimized by male aggression. Some days, that's what the Black Cat talks about.<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-osEwlWYBi_E/V1g9vmdElUI/AAAAAAAAB9M/70Jid4P1G3sYMgcMftqy-Jr14xeJQiNyACK4B/s1600/question_mark_sm.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-osEwlWYBi_E/V1g9vmdElUI/AAAAAAAAB9M/70Jid4P1G3sYMgcMftqy-Jr14xeJQiNyACK4B/s200/question_mark_sm.jpg" width="158" /></a>Yet there are many days that I don't know what the Black Cat is supposed to say or how to say it. I have a voice, and apparently it's a decent one, at least on its best days. Yet how do I know when those days will strike? And how do I keep that voice true to itself and all the things I <strike>want</strike> need to say?<br />
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Hard questions.<br />
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As my blog description says, I want to write the beautiful, funny, sad, and strange. Yet if I face facts, I tend to be on a soapbox when people read me most. Is that then my true voice? The one on the soapbox? Soapboxes are all well and good, and Lord knows I love to prance around on mine. But is that all there is?<br />
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7f0YokO6Ic4/V1g-UWr90KI/AAAAAAAAB9Y/GupjVxxqH9MoiwNl0A396VbDIBeopqlugCK4B/s1600/soapbox_web.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="146" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-7f0YokO6Ic4/V1g-UWr90KI/AAAAAAAAB9Y/GupjVxxqH9MoiwNl0A396VbDIBeopqlugCK4B/s200/soapbox_web.jpg" width="200" /></a>What about the rest? Can the voice declaiming from the soapbox also translate the extraordinary world that surrounds her on every side? Can she convey the beauty in the strange and the strangeness of the beautiful? Can she claim in writing the sometimes biting, sometimes silly humor that gets her through the day?<br />
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Or is the soapbox on behalf of the silent and the silenced her truest home?<br />
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More hard questions, questions to which I have no answer. If you do, please tell me. And if you don't, well, please just keep on reading. Maybe we can find my voice together.Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460854522138944334.post-736222264779531212016-05-24T07:24:00.002-07:002016-07-22T16:12:03.169-07:00Some things are NEVER okayLet's take a little quiz.<br />
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When is it okay for a man to hit or sexually harass a woman?<br />
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A) never<br />
B) when she "asks for it"<br />
C) never<br />
D) when he's "joking around"<br />
E) when he's being attacked by a female assassin in hand-to-hand combat<br />
F) both A and C (and maybe E)<br />
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Although I got a little silly with "E," this is no laughing matter. One would think that in 2016, when women can be chosen for positions of power, when <a href="http://www.suzannecollinsbooks.com/index.htm" target="_blank">Katniss Everdeen</a> has ruled bestseller lists and box office alike, when <a href="http://www.nadiabolzweber.com/" target="_blank">Nadia Bolz-Weber</a> and <a href="http://www.onbeing.org/" target="_blank">Krista Tippett</a> are among those addressing religion in an old-new way, this barbaric behavior would be a thing of the past.<br />
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One would be wrong.<br />
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Start with this news story:<br />
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<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2016/05/23/world/europe/france-sexual-harassment-denis-baupin-politics.html?_r=0" target="_blank">French Lawmaker's Fall Over Harassment Claims May Hold Lesson for Men</a><br />
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And before you dismiss that as, "oh, those nasty French," click here:<br />
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<a href="http://www.avclub.com/article/men-read-horrifying-sexist-tweets-female-sports-re-235874" target="_blank">Men Read Horrifying Sexist Tweets</a><br />
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That's not even close to as bad as it gets. Do you know that this is going on in our schools? That girls not old enough to drive are getting smacked around and called names too awful for me to type? That many college orientations now include freshwoman "how-to-avoid-rape" sessions? That worst of all, girls are so used to it that they believe this is how it's supposed to be?! I'm not just talking about girls with low self-esteem here. I'm talking about all girls, even strong, confident, intelligent girls. </div>
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It defies understanding.<br />
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It breaks my heart. </div>
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And it makes me really, really mad. </div>
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There are a lot of beautiful and wonderful things in this world, and usually those are the things I try to write. But this terrible darkness exists as well, and unless we shine some light on it, it will remain.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">PS Sorry this post is <i>sans photo</i>. Couldn't get the image of blinding white fury to show up on the page.</span></div>
Laurahttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01206018117347399973noreply@blogger.com0