Lawyer Mama

The Emperor's New Clothes

My blog is my little narcissistic home away from home. In my corporeal life, my friends and family tend to get annoyed if I spend too much time naval gazing, talking about myself, or whining about my real (or imagined) problems. In the blog world, people seem to enjoy reading about my foibles and frequently come back for more.

Of course, part of that return readership is no doubt related to the dialogue and rapport we establish on our blogs. But let's face it, part of the appeal of blog reading is the glimpse we get into someone else's life. That life may be one you envy, one you relate to, or one that makes you feel superior and relieved to be you. Sometimes it's all of those. Frequently it's all of those.

I know that I personally enjoy reading about politics, social issues, and things we can do to make a difference. But the blogs posts that haunt me are personal. They incorporate real experiences, real relationships, and real problems into hauntingly beautiful writing. It's like a never ending novel with my favorite characters. But I get to keep reading about Lizzie and Mr. Darcy's life after their marriage. I read about their restrained arguments, fertility problems, and intolerable in-laws.

Sometimes, I get to meet my favorite characters in person.

When I think about the things I leave off of my blog and cloak in "privacy," I frequently try to compare it to writing a novel. I ask myself "if I put this fight with my husband in a book with different names, would he be angry?" The answer is sometimes yes and sometimes no. But a blog is different. There is no line stating "any resemblance to real people is entirely coincidental" to hide behind. We aren't characters in a novel. This is my life out there for all the world to Google, read, and judge.

So how do I maintain that thin, but important, veil of privacy around those I love?

I do have certain rules. I don't blog about my sex life or my personal relationship with my husband. This has left some readers with the impression that T is annoyingly perfect. Trust me when I say he is anything but perfect. He's a hell of a lot closer to it than I am, but no one is perfect. But our marriage and the trust we have to share our innermost feelings is far more important than a blog post. T's issues are not mine to share. They belong to him. My issues with T are not mine to share. They belong to us.

I also refrain from blogging about family problems. As with my relationship with my husband, trust is more important than airing my parents' dirty laundry. That's why I have a therapist!

I don't blog about work. I have no desire to be Dooced, destroy my relationships with opposing counsel and co-workers, or be disbarred.

Those are the easy rules.

The hardest rules are those with my children. That's a post for another day because I don't have 5 hours to share my thoughts (and guilt) about their privacy.

What about other people I interact with or people from my past? They fall into a gray area. I can't avoid blogging about any of my personal relationships or this would be a pretty boring blog. But I do have to think about how I would feel if that person found my blog. Or how I would feel if anyone from my past found my blog.

I've written about a painful relationship and break up I had in my early twenties and my still, somewhat, unresolved feelings about the whole matter. How would I feel if my ex-boyfriend read my post about him? How would he feel? I don't think I would be upset. In fact, I know I wouldn't. I would never post something about someone I know that I wouldn't tell them in person if they asked.

But the ex? I have a feeling he might be a bit upset about my revelations about his more recent past. I would apologize for hurting him, but I don't think I would remove the post. If he had confidentially shared the information about his past, I would never have written the post in the first place. But he didn't and ultimately the post is more about me than anyone else.

I was forced to think about my invisible cloak of privacy because two people I knew in high school are now occasionally reading my blog (Hi, K! Hi, B!) one of whom I suspect had a crush on me once upon a time.... (Or maybe I'm projecting.) Somehow it's easier to think of strangers reading my intimate thoughts about a deeply personal topic than it is to think of friends who knew me and my ex-boyfriend, who knew the people we were then.

Happily Ever After was one of the most personal posts I've ever written. It says a lot about me and who I am now. And so, ultimately, I guess I'm happy to have anyone who knew me then, know me now.

When you're looking at me on display in all my naked glory? Just try to ignore the stretch marks.

This post is for Julie's weekly Hump Day Hmmm.

Musical Memories

In memory, everything seems to happen to music.

- Tennessee Williams

My parents sent me to a preschool attached to a Lutheran church. We knew the teacher, although I can't recall her name now. She babysat me at times, drove me home from preschool on occasion and taught my Sunday school class. From what I recall, she was a nice, grandmotherly sort of person. (Although I now suspect she wasn't that much older than my parents. At the age of 4, everyone seems old.) For some reason, several of my most memorable, and undoubtedly character shaping, early childhood memories involved her.

Memory 1:

One day, my preschool teacher was bringing me home and we stopped at the grocery store to pick up a few things she needed. I, always the obedient child, followed her around the store and smiled shyly at all the people who told her how cute I was or tried to talk to me. I remember the muzak playing in the store, tinny and sweet. Very different from the music my father listened to.

When we were standing in the check out aisle it happened. While my teacher chatted with the cashier, I looked at all the gum and candy. And I picked one up, turned it over in my hand, and put it in my pocket. Not to keep, just to have for a minute. It made sense in my 4 year old mind. As we left the store, the cashier smiled at me and told me to have a good day. I smiled shyly back and was led away by the hand, the candy in my pocket forgotten.

I climbed into the car and put my hand in my pocket. What was this? As I pulled out the candy with some surprise, my teacher noticed. She asked me where I'd gotten the candy. I didn't answer. She knew anyway. She asked me if I'd taken it from the store. I didn't answer. She knew anyway.

She brought me back to the store, made me give the candy back to the cashier who'd beamed at me earlier, and apologize. I did. Mortified and in tears.

In the car, I quietly sobbed on the way home, listening to a lecture about stealing. I'm sure it was nothing more than a quick and serious conversation about why we don't take things without paying for them, but in my 4 year old mind it was so much more than that.

Clearly, it made quite an impression.

When I got home, my teacher didn't tell my mother. Neither did I. I knew my mother would be disappointed in me. If my teacher had been, I knew my mother would be. Even as a toddler I was already desperate to please. When my mother asked me what was wrong, I don't remember what I said. Perhaps I said I didn't feel well. But I know I didn't tell her the truth. That would have been impossible.

Memory 2:

My teacher had come to pick me up for Sunday School. I'm not sure why my parents weren't coming. Perhaps my brother, an infant, was sick. It seemed to my young mind that my father was always gone. (He was in the Air Force.) I was wearing a nice dress and shoes, my hair in carefully blow dried waves. In my memory it was my yellow dress with the white patent leather shoes, but that could be just because I've seen pictures of myself wearing that dress at about the age of 4.

We were in the driveway but I wouldn't get in the car. I was screaming and kicking and crying. I remember that they tried to physically put me in the car but I braced myself on the outside of the car and refused.

You don't understand what an event this was for me. I was an unusually well behaved and compliant infant and toddler. I didn't do public tantrums like that. Perhaps that's why my mother gave in. Faced with such a strangely violent reaction from me, it probably seemed best that I stay home.

I don't remember ever attending Sunday School again.

I don't remember much from immediately after the event. All I know is that I think of my Sunday School tantrum whenever I hear the song, "Jesus loves me." Perhaps I learned it for the first time from my preschool teacher. Maybe I did attend Sunday School again after that day, but in my memory tantrum day ended my formal relationship with "church," leaving a faint imprint of cardboard doves, the smell of thick school paste, and the faded sounds of children's songs on my mind.

The pain and recrimination of disappointing people. The triumph at having my voice heard. Both of these memories are quite vivid.

What do I take from these memories now? I'll leave that to you to speculate. I'm sure that those of you who know me well, or even read my blog regularly, can guess.

I still can't stand Seventies muzak.

This was part of Julie's Hump Day Hmmm. Our task for the week was to write about key childhood memories and how and why we still carry them.

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If you want to know the MOMocrats thoughts on John Edwards' recent departure from the race for the Democratic presidential nomination, head on over today or tomorrow. We're not going away. We're going to be reminding Senators Obama and Clinton about the promises they've made and, hopefully, asking some tough questions. They're going to need to earn our votes.

Christmas in Omaha

I've been strangely silent about what happened in an Omaha mall last week. Some of you know that I lived in Omaha for 10 years and that my parents still live there. It's where I met and married T. We moved from Omaha to D.C. for law school at GWU.

But what you don't know is that I worked at Westroads Mall during college. I'm intimately familiar with the mall. In fact, I remember when the Von Maur department store opened and how excited we all were. I would go sit in the atrium and listen to the piano player in the store, which, at the age of 20, I thought was the height of elegance. Yes, the atrium where people died.

You also don't know that my husband's family knew one of the victims. A man originally from their small corner of Southwest Nebraska, who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time doing some Christmas shopping at the end of a business trip. His funeral was earlier this week.

Honestly, I've been struggling with what to say.

The fabulously honest DD wrote about the Omaha shootings earlier this week and she said many of the things I want to say. This kind of random violence can happen anywhere. The Omaha metropolitan area has more than 1 million people. There are drugs, and gangs, and poverty, and social problems that would curl your toes in Omaha. Just like there are in every city and town in America. Midwestern town does not equal problem free town. People of America, particularly those of you who are in the media, please stop acting so damn surprised.

There are many more things about the media coverage of the shooting in Omaha that anger me. Just as there are many things about sensationalist media coverage of any tragedy that anger me. But what has been unexpected to me is how frustrated I am at the attempt of every community, national and local, to "own" this tragedy.

Now in some ways, feeling personally touched by a horrible event half way across the country or half way around the world is wonderful. Americans follow the news anxiously if a child falls down a well or a country is overwhelmed by a tidal wave. This support can be wonderful for parents, communities, and countries. It can motivate politicians, presidents, and policy.

But this support has a dark side.

The night of the Omaha shooting, our local news channel ran a lead story about the shooting, followed by a segment on protecting yourself at the mall. I have no doubt that news stations across the country ran similar stories. Of course local stations and the broadcast networks are going to cover the shooting. Of course, they are going to address issues that come up peripherally. But they don't have to make it sensationalist. They don't have to put the fear of God in every viewer. They don't have to lead with "Can it happen here? We ask local experts." We shouldn't have to experience 5 straight hours of CNN coverage that makes us think, "Oh. My. God. I will never enter a mall again without an Uzi to protect myself and my children!"

I call this the Fox News Effect.

I know that media outlets are responding to interest in a tragedy when they run segments like this, but these stories do two things: (1) they make us more fearful than is necessary; and (2) they trivialize the tragedies themselves.

Can it happen to you? Or you, or you, or you? Yes, of course it can. Is it likely? Um, no. Instead of focusing on the fear, why can't we have a rational discussion about mental illness? Even better, why can't we talk about how yellow journalism can drive people to do things like this in an attempt to become "famous?"

This focus on fear also moves the focus of the story (and the support of the viewing public) from where it should be - support of the victims, their families, their communities, and the underlying social problems that cause this sort of violence - to us, the viewing public, and what we can do to protect ourselves.

I know that if we stopped watching and voiced our displeasure, news outlets would stop. They run these stories because we watch them. But these stories play into our personal fears. Fears newly awakened by watching frightened and crying customers shivering in the parking lot in the aftermath. We start to think about ourselves instead of others.

In some ways, I felt the same after 9/11. I lived in D.C. I worked at the Pentagon during law school. My friends and colleagues were in that building. So were some of T's. We, and pretty much everyone we knew, were touched by death and despair. We knew the families, the wives, husbands, and children left behind. We drove past the gaping hole in the side of that imposing building every day. We saw the smoke. We felt the impact. We lived with the aftermath. We picked up the pieces and struggled to get on the Metro every day without fear. We boarded planes and pretended to be nonchalant as we prepared for take off.

Meanwhile, every small town in America started fighting over Homeland Security funds and freaking out about guarding the local water supply for a town of 500.

I'm not entirely sure why this made me so angry. But whenever I heard stories about things like that I just wanted to scream. It made me feel as if what had happened to my world was not important. As if what had happened in New York and D.C. was not as important as some hypothetical attack on Kansas City.

This is not to say that the rest of the country had no right to be scared or that no support was rallied. I think we all know how wonderful it was to live in the United States in the wake of 9/11, despite the fear. Americans pulled together in a way we rarely do. I also don't think everyone should act as if another 9/11 scale attack couldn't happen again and do nothing. But for God's sake, when I hear someone from a tiny town in the Northwest talking about the possibility of a terrorist attack at their local Piggly Wiggly, I just want to shake them. I want to shake them until they see the world beyond their personal space.

I know that the people of Omaha will pick up the pieces and move on. But I also know that they'll remember the victims this Christmas while they're in church and while they're gathered with their families, despite the lingering stories.

I know that many people in Omaha will be thinking of those families that are now missing a loved one. They'll be pulling together in support, true support, of those families. That is a facet of the Midwest that I know will always be the same, no matter how many journalists descend on the area.

What also gives me comfort is the knowledge that, despite what happened, the next time I go into Von Maur, or any store in Westroads Mall, I'll be greeted again with a sunny smile and a warm welcome. Because that's just how the people of Omaha roll.

This is for Julie's Hump Day Hmmm for the week. She tasked us with writing about our unique pet peeves.

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I have a new review up of the Autolite Flareglo on my review blog. If you're safety conscious, you'll want this for your emergency car kit.

People Who Give A Damn

Last night T and I watched the movie Blood Diamond. Have you seen it? It highlights some of the worst of human nature and its results: power, greed, and violence. For the first three quarters of the movie, I was incredibly depressed thinking about the world my boys will inherit from us. But then one of the characters said something that gave me hope. He pointed out that if even the worst person can have one moment of kindness, it can give purpose to that life. And so I was reminded of the flip side of human nature: hope.

For every horrible thing we read about or hear about on the news, there is someone else out there doing some good, caring, or writing about a cause with passion. This month's list of Just Posts is a good reminder that there is hope in a world of chaos.

A few posts really struck a chord with me this month, and I nominated them for Just Posts. Take a moment to read these posts if you haven't yet. They're written by bloggers who care passionately about their children and the world they will inhabit. Their issues and passions transcend political parties. Whether motivated politically or socially, they all give me hope.


Jen for Door to Door and Chasing Tails
Pundit Mom (and Pundit Girl) for Iraq War Solution by Pundit Girl
David for Facebook Better Smarten Up Fast
The Dynamic Duo at the League of Maternal Justice for The League of Maternal Justice
Amie of DC Metro Moms and Mamma Loves for An Open Letter to the Political Candidates-From a Mom

Special thanks to the kind soul or souls who nominated my posts On Becoming A Lawyer and Facebook Sucks.

You can check out the full list of this month's nominees over at the sites of Jen, Mad, Susanne, and Hel.

Some Questions for Virginia Drivers

For Julie's Hump Day Hmmm this week, she asked that we write about something that's bothering us in a humorous way. Gah! The pressure to be funny on demand is too great! I do have something that's been bothering me. I can't promise funny, but I can promise sarcasm....

I have some questions and comments for Virginia drivers:

1. If there's construction ahead and a lane ending, let me in. If you don't, I'll be forced to drive to the front of the line and bulldoze my way in. I'll win. My SUV is bigger than yours.



2. What the hell is up with the confederate flag you're hanging in your back window? The war is over. We lost. Get over it. And stop perpetuating hate and discrimination with that disgusting symbol. It means hate NOT heritage!



3. What's up with the gun rack? I rarely see actual guns in them, which, let's face it, is probably a good thing, but are you trying to convince me that you actually hunt? If you don't, lose the gun rack. It is not a cute accessory.



4. Ditto with those annoying play boy bunny mud flaps. It's not going to help you pick up women.



5. Truck balls. Explain yourself. It's bad enough that you've purchased that truck with jacked up wheels to attempt to overcome your inadequacies. Do you have to hang plastic nuts from the rear too?



6. Why are you riding my bumper? Does it take too much effort for you to change lanes? Do you really think you're following at a safe distance? I hope you have insurance, because if the kids aren't in the car I might hit my brakes and sue you for whiplash.



7. HOV Lane means High Occupancy Vehicle lane. It does not mean that you, the solo driver, can use that lane to pass or to cruise when traffic is backed up. All those people you're cruising by will bludgeon you to death with your truck balls if given the chance.
   


8. Turn your stereo down. I don't want to listen to your booming music, particularly if it's 2am and I can hear it from my house. I'm going to sound like my mother for a moment but, you're going to be deaf if you don't knock it off.



9. Put your kids in a car seat! If I see them bouncing all over the back of the car I will call the police and I will pull up next to you at the intersection and yell at you. And yes, it is my business!

I think I'm done for now.

{/rant}

Private School Angst

I'm a product of public schools.

Now, depending on what you think about my writing you're either thinking, "Well, that certainly explains a lot," or, "Go, Steph!" But my point is, I've always been a firm supporter of public education. If kids with advantages at home are all sent to private schools, where does that leave the public schools? We all know the answer to that. It can leave the public schools with dummed-down academic programs, uninvolved parents, and funding problems.

Of course it was much easier for me to stand on my soapbox and preach The Gospel Of Public School before I actually became a parent.

Before we moved to the Hampton Roads area of Virginia, we lived in the City of Falls Church, just outside of D.C. For those of you who have no friggin' clue what this means, we were a short walk from some of the finest public schools in the country. The population of the City of Falls Church is extremely well educated, high income, diverse, and involved. The CoFC also has its own small public school system, separate and apart from the ginormous Fairfax County Public Schools. (Even though the CoFC is technically in Fairfax County.) This means smaller class sizes, a more flexible and varied curriculum, less bureaucracy, and much more parental involvement. In other words, Falls Church is pretty much a parent's public school wet dream.

Of course after we had our first child, T and I, in our infinite wisdom, decided to move several hours away from D.C. in a search for more balanced family lives. We were also looking for a less, um..., cloying neighborhood. We found the perfect house on a 4 acre lot and lots of privacy. We love it.

But we don't live in a very good school district.

Our elementary school is not great. While the high school has a relatively good reputation, it is huge. While this may mean more access to AP and IB classes and interesting extracurricular activities, it can mean less individual contact with the faculty, and less opportunity for my involvement in choosing their educational paths.

A large public school would also mean there will be less opportunity for my kids to be deeply involved in school sports, something that I think is important for every child regardless of ability level. Judging by the athletic talent of T and I, neither of our kids is destined to become the next Peyton Manning, but I'd still like them to be involved in their school sports teams if they're so inclined.

So now T and I find ourselves facing a decision we swore we'd never have to make. Are we going to send our kids to private schools?

I can't say that we have the answer to this question yet. I still strongly support public schools. I still also believe that troubled schools need the involvement of more parents who actually give a damn. And frankly, the private schools in our area are not very diverse and diversity, in race, income, and culture, is important to me. I do not want my children to grow up with a sense of entitlement. I want them to grow up with a sense of responsibility to the community and their fellow man.

That is not to say that all of these things can't be found in private schools, but am I a hypocrite if I teach these things at home and then pack my kids off to an expensive school to play with other kids who have money?

I want my children to have the best opportunities, but that doesn't just mean the best opportunities that money can buy. I'm just not sure yet which route will offer the "best" for my children.

How did you decide between public and private schools or how will you decide? Is cost the only issue?

This post is part of Julie's Hump Day Hmm round table. Our topic for this week was school. This post is also cross posted at DC Metro Moms.

Race and the Blogosphere

This post is part of Julie Pippert's Hump Day Hmm and BlogRhet's "Let's Talk About Race, Baby" week long initiative.

There have been some fascinating debates going on in the Blogosphere about race as it relates to blogging over the last few weeks. In fact, Julie's Hump Day Hmmm to all of us this week is to discuss whether race matters on the Internet, or whether it should matter.

I have many thoughts on this subject and no time to write them all down. However, Julie asked us to put our comments from her post into a post of our own if the topic as a whole was overwhelming.

A little background first: If asked a few months ago if race mattered on the Internet, I would have said yes and no. Sometimes people write from a racial and cultural perspective that I find interesting. Although my blog roll over there is pretty white bread, I do enjoy variety and I have over 200 blogs in my Bloglines. Some are parents, some are not. Some are white, some are not. But overall I would have argued that the Internet is a place that is colorblind.

Aside from the economical aspect of Internet access (that's a post for another time), if you don't want your race known on the Internet, it won't be. If we're honest, I think that on the Internet, even if your race is advertised and discussed, there aren't the same stumbling blocks or awkwardness to a discussion that there might be face to face.

Julie, in her post, discussed why race sometimes should matter, in medical diagnosis and on the Internet. She points out that our genetic background may be the key to an ailment that our skin color does not reveal. Then Julie wonderfully describes why our race and cultural backgrounds may be and sometimes should be important. I agree with her point that different cultures and different perspectives, whether seen through the veil of color or not, can be an amazing addition to our online conversations. How boring this blogging world would be if we all agreed about everything and we all had the same background.

Part of my comment to Julie on this post was:

Sometimes I think its easy for those of us who are white (or at least appear to be) to say that race doesn't or shouldn't matter. But you point out quite aptly, that sometimes it should. I tend to think that we should embrace our similarities and our differences because *that* is what will make this world interesting, whether in the "real" world or the blogosphere.

Her Bad Mother raised some interesting questions in her comment to the discussion:

Do bloggers have an obligation to write their racial/ethnic/cultural (not to mention sexual, etc.) identities into their texts? Do *readers* have an obligation to seek that information out? How do we navigate this issue in a community that allows - even encourages - certain degrees of invisibility?

I can't pretend to have all the answers. In fact, I don't want to have all of the answers. I just want to participate in the discussion.

So tell me what you think, in the comments or on your blog. Does race matter in the Blogosphere? Add your voice to the discussion.

I apologize for writing a half-assed post and not including all of the necessary linky love, but I have a lot going on right now. If you read Julie's post, I promise you'll find all the background you need on this weighty topic.

What We Carry With Us

My youngest son, Holden, my baby, has a security blanket. He calls it Blankie or, sometimes more formally to others, Blankettt. The "t" is carefully enunciated, his little tongue very deliberately meeting his baby teeth.

Blankie is a soft red chenille with a cheery yellow embroidered sun, giraffe, and palm tree and a blue rick rack border. The perfect blanket for such a sunny boy.

When Holden catches a glimpse of his blanket, a smile lights up his face, he exhales a breathy "Blankie!," and dives face first into his Blankie with no thought for personal safety. There have been many bumped and bruised foreheads in the name of Blankie love.

He forgets about Blankie for long stretches of time during the day, but if I put him in his crib with no blanket, he looks around and then up at me, quizzically. "Blankie?"

In the mornings, Holden drags Blankie with him as I lift him from his crib, warm and snugly. We sit in the corner of the couch and Holden folds back into my lap, his neck in the crook between my shoulder and arm, his head on my chest, his damp diapered tush on my leg. Blankie wraps around us both. Holden looks up at me and smiles his sleepy, enigmatic smile. We bask in mutual adoration.

They really know how to make us love them, these children of ours.

I remember my own childhood blanket.

When I was 3 or 4, I think, my parents were out for the evening and I had a babysitter. I don't remember if my brother, B, had been born yet, so I'm unsure about my age as well. There was an accident, my parents were called, I was frantically driven to the emergency room.

My parents wrapped me in a soft cotton baby blanket, white with large pink and blue flowers. I remember being carried through the dark in the blanket. I remember bright lights and a very white, blinding room. I remember clutching the blanket to me and refusing to let go. I don't remember much else. But I do remember the blanket.

That blanket became my talisman, my sleeping aid. My memory of being cocooned and comforted.

When I reached adolescence, I folded the blanket up and put it in a drawer, but it was still nearby. When I left home, I packed my blanket into a box, where it remained, and carted it from home to dorm, dorm to apartment, apartment to home.

Now, the blanket resides in a box in the attic of our house. Sometimes I will picture my blanket up there, creased from years of folding, the fabric soft and threadbare from hundreds of washings, pink and blue flowers strangely their original hue, the blood stains still faintly visible, reminding me of its history.

At 18 months, Holden's Blankie is still its original cherry red, unmarred by stains, unfrayed by time. I know that his attachment to Blankie is appropriate for his age and quite common. I also know that he may not need Blankie much longer. He may forget about it in a few years or only a few months.

But when he does, I will fold his Blankie and put it in a drawer. And when Holden leaves his childhood home, I will pack Blankie in a box and send it with him as a reminder of home and of me.

I hope that Holden will carry Blankie with him always.

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This post is part of Julie's fabulous Hump Day Hmmm Roundtable. Our topic for this week was "The things you carry with you." (I was at a loss for a title for my post, so I shamelessly stole it.)



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If you haven't already, please also check out the Just Posts for June. The list of Just Posts seems to get longer every month and that is fabulous! And I'm not just saying that because some kind soul nominated me for one this month.

The Litany of Motherhood

Karma is not normally something I write about, unless it's the punchline in a joke. I make fun of my co-worker when she falls down and then karma gives me a bitch slap and I fall down in a spectacular manner, of course, in front of half of my office.

Karma is not, however, something I think about consciously in my day to day life. Nor do I think about it as it pertains to justice or forgiveness. If someone were to ask, I would say that I don't really believe in karma. This poses a problem considering our task for this week's Hump Day Hmmm. Julie's topic for us is to, "Discuss the concept of karma, and what you think of its role in justice, injustice, and forgiveness."

The problem, I think, with invoking karma is that it takes things out of my hands. Some people see karma as actually helping one to control life. After all, if you are the best person you can be, won't life treat you well? But for me, the idea of karma makes the events around me uncontrollable. Why? Because good things don't always happen to good people. As a certified Type A personality, I don't deal well with things beyond my control.

Nor can I brush off an insult, a crime, or an injustice with the thought that "karma" will pay an individual back for their misdeeds. I'm more of a fighter. If I see an injustice, a crime, a slight, I get mad. And I fight back. I invoke the justice system. I don't sit back and let "karma," that slacker, do its job.

Do I think that bad things will happen to bad people who do bad things to others? Yes, I do. But probably because of the circumstances, not karmic retribution. A bad person who hurts another, for instance, is far more likely to be thrown in jail for such a crime than the innocent bystander, assuming we've controlled for all confounding factors. Do I think that "karma" has anything to do with that? No.

To tie this post in with the Hump Day Hmmm two weeks ago regarding accidents of birth, I also think that reliance upon karma can, again, be used as a pass for those who feel that the problems of this world are not their responsibility. If "karma" controls, then has the poor child born with AIDS in Africa done something to deserve this accident of birth? Has a teenage girl who is raped done something to deserve her treatment? Does a 34 year old mother of a two year old and a five month old deserve her recent cancer diagnosis?

I think most reasonable people would say, not just no, but HELL NO!

I can, however, see karma's role with respect to forgiveness.

I've written here before about how I am not a forgiver. Forgiveness does not come easily to me, even for small slights.

For many years, as a child, a twenty-something student, and even as a thirty-something professional, I could not forgive my mother for her faults. My mom became a mother at a young age - 22 - an age at which I could fathom being responsible for a small person. At 22 I was at the bar three times a week, absorbed in my own little dramas and passion plays. But my mother, my mother was raising a family with a husband far away.

My father was a navigator in the Air Force and, while he clearly loved us, he simply wasn't there. My mother did most of the heavy lifting in our family. She was the disciplinarian, the teacher, the sounding board, the confidant. She bore the weight of three worlds on her very young shoulders.

My mother was also moody and distant at times. She liked time to herself, without the constant demands of two soul sucking small children and, later on, the demands of being a student and then a high school teacher. In hindsight it seems we begrudged her every second of time alone.

I catalogued every perceived slight and error my mother made until I could recite them as a prayer, my unholy liturgy of blame.

Of course now that I am a mother, I understand. I understand the pressures of working and raising children. Of struggling to find an identity outside that of "mother." I, with my sense of self firmly entrenched before having children, cannot imagine how much harder that struggle must be when there hasn't been any time to develop that individual identity, to grow up.

Now, having suffered the sleep deprivation, long working hours, and a sometimes absentee husband, I understand all too well the depression I saw in my mother. I understand the isolation she must have felt moving far away from her family and friends only to have a part-time husband and co-parent.

And so, in my hard earned wisdom, my mother and I are redefining our relationship once again. I have forgiven her and, I believe, she has forgiven me as well. But without that first step, those first token words or steps taken towards forgiveness, how does it ever happen?

I firmly believe that those who are forgiven are more likely to in turn forgive. So I guess, maybe, I believe in karma just a bit after all.

Of Privilege and Prejudice

A few years ago I got into a heated debate with an extended family member. I don't recall how the topic came up, but lots of alcohol had been ingested and I think she finally got up the cojones to ask me about my decidedly liberal tendencies. The subject was the U.S. "welfare" system.

I explained that I felt fortunate to have my brain, education, and upbringing and that I saw nothing wrong with paying a bit more in taxes to help those not so fortunate. My, (I thought) relatively reasonable opinions, brought forth a spew of vitriol against "those people." "Those people" on welfare. The words were so forceful that spittle sprayed my face. In the interests of keeping our vacation somewhat peaceful, I walked away. But I was very disturbed.

Over the last few years I've returned to this exchange in my thoughts and wondered what it was about my relative's views that I found so unnerving. After all, I usually have no problem shunting off the views of hateful people without a second thought. Now, I think my unease arose from a sense that we weren't just talking about welfare. We were talking about a whole world view.

What was left unsaid, but implied, by my relative, is that "those people" are somehow different. They aren't white. They aren't middle class. They don't work hard. They have children they can't support. They aren't us.

They bring poverty and misfortune on themselves.

Sigh.

Now, I know you're all thinking "Oh, she's going to talk about welfare in the U.S. OK, let's just get through this post." But no, I'm not. I'd like to take a look at the broader picture. Because this "us" and "them" mentality isn't limited to class and race wars within the U.S. It's not simply used to bolster a "have" and "have not" system of economics. Rather, some people use this view to internally validate an entirely isolationist view of the world. After all, if people unfortunate enough to have been born into poverty, or in another country, speaking a different language, or with a different religion, just aren't as good as "us," it makes everything so much easier.

It makes it easier to turn the TV channel when you see conflict in the Middle East on the evening news. It makes it easier to buy a People magazine instead of the newspaper when the headline about genocide in Darfur is screaming at you. And yes, it makes it easier to walk by that obviously mentally ill pan handler, keeping your eyes averted at all times. Those people aren't like you, like me, like "us." And hence, their suffering is not our problem.

I fear that I am making some of my regular readers uncomfortable with this diatribe. I can almost feel you pulling away. So I feel as if I must clarify my views even further. This is not a diatribe against fiscal conservatism or even Republicans. Republican does not = racist. I know many compassionate people who have dedicated their lives to helping others and who believe that social welfare is simply not the role of our government. This I can respect. What I cannot respect are those who turn a blind eye (regardless of political persuasion) and simply say "It's not my problem." Because it is your problem. As a resident of this Earth, as one of the privileged simply by happy accident of birth, it is your problem.

It's "our" problem and we all need to open our eyes and see.


This post is part of Julie's latest roundtable discussion. Our topic for this week was quite broad - "accident of birth." I'm sure others have tackled this topic of privilege with more clarity and erudition, but this is a post that's been brewing for quite some time and I had to let it out.

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In other news, I finally got off my tushy and put something up on my review site. I put up my submission for the new PBN Blog Blast for Sk*rt, "What Are You Hiding Under Your Skirt?" Go check it out! And vote for my post.