I spent the morning in bed with M- on Palm Sunday so I watched The Greatest Story Ever Told, instead; I had quite a good time being reminded of the simplicity of my faith: love your neighbor as yourself and do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Simple. In the horrific ideology of the Hutaree (and militias like them) where is Love Your Neighbor? Where is Do Unto Others? If this is the greatest commandment, then why is it so easily trumped by guns, violence and murder?
I blame Christian comics. What a world. They'd take contemporary characters (like Archie) and use them to tell Christian stories and morality. I read things like The Cross and the Switchblade or 1970s retellings of the Prodigal Son (so groovy!). But the best one? The one I remember the most and which laid the foundation for me becoming the Bible Answer Girl in my Saturday Bible class? This one.
The Revelation is like Ray Bradbury and Richard Matheson dropped acid and then took Ecstasy and then maybe dropped into a huge K-hole. And I, like every fundamentalist kid in America, swallowed every psychedelic drop.
(Note: the comics about demon possession were even more awesome than the ones about the Rapture.)
And it's this version of Christianity and the 'end times' that Christian militias either want to catalyze or hope for. (Clearly, however, something was lost in translation. If the Hutaree are believers, wouldn't they be snatched up in the Rapture? So who are they training to fight against if they aren't going to be here when the battle happens?)
The point is: none of this makes sense. The story of The End Times is a fascinating story for a kid to read. It's the best comic book ever. But with adult eyes, it has no relationship to the words and precepts of Christ that I actually believe.
Because this is Holy Week, I'm supposed to contemplate the submission of Christ to His destiny, the cross. Like a good Christian, I'm to sit in the dark on Maundy Thursday and feel the weight of His death - and look forward to the final celebration of His resurrection on Easter. With the resurrection, the commandment to love one another is eternal. This is the cycle that gives Christianity its meaning.
Not the crazy last chapter.
Monday, March 29, 2010
No one like Mondays. Especially when you come into the office and discover your laptop has been stolen. Along with 4 others.
...
In other news, M- and I have taken another teeny step toward solidifying our relationship. I know it seems strange to mark progress like this but that's the Spock in me. I need to know that I'm achieving something or it's not worthwhile.
A friend of mine and her partner are looking for a place together and it got us thinking: would we be open to moving in together?
Having just moved out on my own, and also just renewed my lease, I'm not in any particular hurry. And we're both older and stubborn, set in our ways. And we both seem to have different ways of living. What would we be like living together?
So I asked him.
He said, 'Not like now. I'm living in a dusty dark man cave because I didn't give a damn. But if we lived together, I'd really want to make a home with you.'
'You don't think we'd get tired of seeing each other, all the time? Every day?'
'This is why I'm thinking we'd get a large place. A room for us, a room for my stuff, an office for you.'
'What about your collection? Wouldn't you need to touch it, look at it, go through it all the time?' (I know comic book boys. They're weird about their collections.)
He said, 'What am I? Rainman?'
We didn't come to any firm conclusions but now it's out there, on the table between us, ready to be taken up again later.
And this weekend will be Easter dinner with the parents of a good friend and maybe some other of my friends - a retest of the two of us in mixed company.
...
In other news, M- and I have taken another teeny step toward solidifying our relationship. I know it seems strange to mark progress like this but that's the Spock in me. I need to know that I'm achieving something or it's not worthwhile.
A friend of mine and her partner are looking for a place together and it got us thinking: would we be open to moving in together?
Having just moved out on my own, and also just renewed my lease, I'm not in any particular hurry. And we're both older and stubborn, set in our ways. And we both seem to have different ways of living. What would we be like living together?
So I asked him.
He said, 'Not like now. I'm living in a dusty dark man cave because I didn't give a damn. But if we lived together, I'd really want to make a home with you.'
'You don't think we'd get tired of seeing each other, all the time? Every day?'
'This is why I'm thinking we'd get a large place. A room for us, a room for my stuff, an office for you.'
'What about your collection? Wouldn't you need to touch it, look at it, go through it all the time?' (I know comic book boys. They're weird about their collections.)
He said, 'What am I? Rainman?'
We didn't come to any firm conclusions but now it's out there, on the table between us, ready to be taken up again later.
And this weekend will be Easter dinner with the parents of a good friend and maybe some other of my friends - a retest of the two of us in mixed company.
Friday, March 26, 2010
pay no mind to the woman behind the curtain
I may be one of those women so long decried in business magazines: the woman who silently seethes for lack of proper recognition.
If I was a man, I doubt that ManChristina would be so...acquiescent about being the 'voice' for his boss. I doubt ManChristina would be ok standing behind the curtain, writing the words that get other people kudos. I also doubt ManChristina would be so slow trying to figure out what ManChristina was going to do about it, without sounding petty or childish.
In fact, I don't think ManChristina would give a flying fuck whether he sounded petty or childish.
Oh, sure. ManChristina would understand that this is part of being on a communications team, but sooner or later, he'd simply say: 'I want fucking credit for my work.'
I wonder what ManChristina would say to me?
ManChristina: You are being such a whiner.
DeliaChristina: No I'm not! I'm trying, really hard, to be a team player!
MC: (snort) Whatever, you big baby.
DC: I don't want to be the ... disruptive, angry one. Uh, anymore.
MC: You also don't want to be the one who gets credit. Your choice. (shrug)
DC: You don't understand! We're a team! Our team's job is to make the CEO look good. So...that's what I do. I do the policy research, create the argument and serve it up all nice so she can repeat it.
MC: (snort) That's some bullshit.
DC: You don't get it. That's what a communications team does. Our labor goes into lifting the profile for the organization.
MC: Then why are you so mad? If that's your job, that's your job! Deal. Suck it up.
DC: You're such an asshole.
MC: And you're a whiny baby! Why are you so angry, then? Don't you like being the researcher, writer, argument-maker, secret policy brain?
DC: No! I am tired of being the smart brown girl who does the frakking work and then some savvy, connected white chick comes along and then uses my work to get the big byline, sweet gig or promotion! Aagh!
MC: Then what. Are. You. Going. To. DO.
DC: I have no frakking clue. This is not the best job seeking market, you know. Communications folks are a foot thick on the ground out there....(whine whine)
MC: You need to stop making excuses and do fucking something.
DC: You are no help, ManChristina.
MC: You need to stop being such a girl.
Apparently, ManChristina would be a sexist pig. Huh.
If I was a man, I doubt that ManChristina would be so...acquiescent about being the 'voice' for his boss. I doubt ManChristina would be ok standing behind the curtain, writing the words that get other people kudos. I also doubt ManChristina would be so slow trying to figure out what ManChristina was going to do about it, without sounding petty or childish.
In fact, I don't think ManChristina would give a flying fuck whether he sounded petty or childish.
Oh, sure. ManChristina would understand that this is part of being on a communications team, but sooner or later, he'd simply say: 'I want fucking credit for my work.'
I wonder what ManChristina would say to me?
ManChristina: You are being such a whiner.
DeliaChristina: No I'm not! I'm trying, really hard, to be a team player!
MC: (snort) Whatever, you big baby.
DC: I don't want to be the ... disruptive, angry one. Uh, anymore.
MC: You also don't want to be the one who gets credit. Your choice. (shrug)
DC: You don't understand! We're a team! Our team's job is to make the CEO look good. So...that's what I do. I do the policy research, create the argument and serve it up all nice so she can repeat it.
MC: (snort) That's some bullshit.
DC: You don't get it. That's what a communications team does. Our labor goes into lifting the profile for the organization.
MC: Then why are you so mad? If that's your job, that's your job! Deal. Suck it up.
DC: You're such an asshole.
MC: And you're a whiny baby! Why are you so angry, then? Don't you like being the researcher, writer, argument-maker, secret policy brain?
DC: No! I am tired of being the smart brown girl who does the frakking work and then some savvy, connected white chick comes along and then uses my work to get the big byline, sweet gig or promotion! Aagh!
MC: Then what. Are. You. Going. To. DO.
DC: I have no frakking clue. This is not the best job seeking market, you know. Communications folks are a foot thick on the ground out there....(whine whine)
MC: You need to stop making excuses and do fucking something.
DC: You are no help, ManChristina.
MC: You need to stop being such a girl.
Apparently, ManChristina would be a sexist pig. Huh.
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
go, team!
M: So babe. We've been invited to a party in a couple of weeks on Sunday. You free?
DC: On a Sunday? Always.
M: Cool. We'll talk about it later.
DC: Wonderful.
(last Saturday night, pillow talk)
M: Babe, don't forget we have that thing tomorrow.
DC: Oh, right. What is that again?
M: It's my godson's birthday party. We'll be in and out.
DC: Wait. Children?!?
(Sunday afternoon, Walgreens greeting card aisle)
M: These cards suck.
DC: You could get him a blank card and just write 'Hey, Happy Birthday, kid!' (lady next to us snorts) They're twins, right? What about a card for the other one?
M: Naah. They need to learn how to share.
(I laugh really really loudly.)
(Sunday afternoon, Oak Park bungalow, livingroom couch)
M: (whispering) Do you want anything to eat?
DC: (whispering) No. Your godson picked his nose and touched all the cheese on the cheese tray.
(soon after)
Host: Ugh. That Sarah Palin.
M: (to me) He hates Sarah Palin.
DC: Oh? (having no clue what the political waters are here)
M: He used to be a raging Republican but now -
Host: I'm more Libertarian. It's the gun issue, mainly.
DC: Really? You...like guns?
Host: Oh, I don't own any. But don't say I can't!
DC: Ah. Yes. (to M-.) Los Angeles has guns everywhere. My dad has a gun.
Host: And that's his Constitutional right!
DC: (silently taking sip of Sprite)
(later)
Hostess: Did you know M- was our best man?
DC: I had no idea!
Hostess: (pulling out photo album, showing me a photo of the bride herself, hoisting M- in her arms) He's always been slim.
DC: I see that.
Hostess: M- is one of the best guys; he really is. (Giving me a hard look.)
DC: I know. That's why I'm keeping him around.
(much later)
VeryNiceLady: Oh! They're voting on that healthcare thing today! You work with government - what do you think?
(M- is very very silent next to me. VeryNiceLady's VeryConservativeHusband gives me the fish-eye.)
DC: You know, I was at a panel discussion earlier this year and it was so interesting! There are some unintended consequences, I think, to healthcare reform that local municipalities haven't quite thought about, yet. (I blather on about public healthcare and Stroger Hospital) But there's no doubt that something needs to be done. I mean, premiums in Illinois are predicted to jump at least 25% by 2015! There are questions, though...
VeryNiceLady: (nodding) I know what you mean...
M: (whispering) Thank you.
(last night, on the phone)
M: They invited us for dinner next week.
Teamwork, you know?
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
I have apologized to my coworkers for being such a flaming bitch during the entire month of February. I think my mood will be much better in March, especially once I refill my Ativan prescription. The snow is gone, the sun is out, and I don't have to wear snow boots anymore; how interesting that my mood is directly related to how cute I am able to look. For instance, today is all about the Naughty Librarian With Red Pumps. I feel fabulous; I look fabulous. I smell good.
Happy Tuesday to all!
...
So I think my sister L- will be moving back in with dad. He seems to think she's on solid ground, but is worried that my brother in law is about to lose it. (As am I; though he's a very cool guy, he is rather regimented. And we all know what happens when regimented people crack their shit up.) While I'm concerned for everyone back in LA - especially my dad, who is SO not prepared to have one of his daughters move back in with him and put a crimp in his 66-year old bachelor lifestyle - my thoughts naturally, of course, turn to me. What does my sister's divorce mean to me??
My bottom line: Sweet lord, I'm so glad I'm not married! Marriage is apparently crazy-making. It carries a psychological and cultural expectation of permanence that doesn't encourage one to be in the Now - it's all about two inexorably bound timelines that stretch waaaaay into the future. Like, into Eternity. That is a lot of pressure. And I'm so glad I don't have it!
I mean, yes. I love M-. He is my guy. But we live in two different spaces. We spend days apart doing our own thing. Our timelines, while running alongside each other's for a bit, aren't bound. They can diverge, oh yes they can. There is no expectation of Eternity. Oh, there's an expectation of mutual monogamy (though we've tentatively discussed other arrangements - as well as mutually decided our relationship is too new for us to get too creative with its structure.) But there's no expectation of frakking Eternity.
I try to imagine myself married and I can't get past imagining what I'll wear to the courthouse for a civil ceremony. (I'm thinking a creamy, soft suit with nipped in jacket and pencil skirt and some kind of nifty hat. And really really hot shoes. And nude fishnets.) Or, if I get past that, I think of the small, intimate afternoon luncheon at a nice French restaurant afterward. Then that's it. My imagination goes dark.
Anyway, I know there are a few among all 15 of my readers who enjoy their marital state and this is not to say y'all are chumps. I think y'all are champs!
You have chosen, however, a life structure that confuses me to the core.
Ok, it's after 9. Carry on!
Happy Tuesday to all!
...
So I think my sister L- will be moving back in with dad. He seems to think she's on solid ground, but is worried that my brother in law is about to lose it. (As am I; though he's a very cool guy, he is rather regimented. And we all know what happens when regimented people crack their shit up.) While I'm concerned for everyone back in LA - especially my dad, who is SO not prepared to have one of his daughters move back in with him and put a crimp in his 66-year old bachelor lifestyle - my thoughts naturally, of course, turn to me. What does my sister's divorce mean to me??
My bottom line: Sweet lord, I'm so glad I'm not married! Marriage is apparently crazy-making. It carries a psychological and cultural expectation of permanence that doesn't encourage one to be in the Now - it's all about two inexorably bound timelines that stretch waaaaay into the future. Like, into Eternity. That is a lot of pressure. And I'm so glad I don't have it!
I mean, yes. I love M-. He is my guy. But we live in two different spaces. We spend days apart doing our own thing. Our timelines, while running alongside each other's for a bit, aren't bound. They can diverge, oh yes they can. There is no expectation of Eternity. Oh, there's an expectation of mutual monogamy (though we've tentatively discussed other arrangements - as well as mutually decided our relationship is too new for us to get too creative with its structure.) But there's no expectation of frakking Eternity.
I try to imagine myself married and I can't get past imagining what I'll wear to the courthouse for a civil ceremony. (I'm thinking a creamy, soft suit with nipped in jacket and pencil skirt and some kind of nifty hat. And really really hot shoes. And nude fishnets.) Or, if I get past that, I think of the small, intimate afternoon luncheon at a nice French restaurant afterward. Then that's it. My imagination goes dark.
Anyway, I know there are a few among all 15 of my readers who enjoy their marital state and this is not to say y'all are chumps. I think y'all are champs!
You have chosen, however, a life structure that confuses me to the core.
Ok, it's after 9. Carry on!
Friday, March 12, 2010
can't a brown girl get an amen? no? really? *crickets*
How Your Race Affects The Messages You Get « OkTrends
Interesting:
Black women write back the most. Whether it’s due to talkativeness, loneliness, or a sense of plain decency, black women are by far the most likely to respond to a first contact attempt. In many cases, their response rate is one and a half times the average, and, overall, black women reply about a quarter more often that other women.
Hmph. We are not chatty. We are polite.
Also interesting:
Men don’t write black women back. Or rather, they write them back far less often than they should. Black women reply the most, yet get by far the fewest replies. Essentially every race—including other blacks—singles them out for the cold shoulder.
Sigh. Harsh.
I know nothing about stats; but I know online dating like the back of my hand. And this...is interesting. Whatever submerged, unconscious racial stereotyping floating out there is doing us some serious damage. Not all of us black/brown girls care but, really?? EVERY single dude (including the black and brown ones) diss us on dating sites? Damn.
Apparently, M- and I are outliers.
Interesting:
Black women write back the most. Whether it’s due to talkativeness, loneliness, or a sense of plain decency, black women are by far the most likely to respond to a first contact attempt. In many cases, their response rate is one and a half times the average, and, overall, black women reply about a quarter more often that other women.
Hmph. We are not chatty. We are polite.
Also interesting:
Men don’t write black women back. Or rather, they write them back far less often than they should. Black women reply the most, yet get by far the fewest replies. Essentially every race—including other blacks—singles them out for the cold shoulder.
Sigh. Harsh.
I know nothing about stats; but I know online dating like the back of my hand. And this...is interesting. Whatever submerged, unconscious racial stereotyping floating out there is doing us some serious damage. Not all of us black/brown girls care but, really?? EVERY single dude (including the black and brown ones) diss us on dating sites? Damn.
Apparently, M- and I are outliers.
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
stuck on amtrak, i think about relationships
Talking to my dad yesterday about the utter destruction of my sister's marriage he asked how things were going with me and M-.
I said we were going strong and he said something like, 'You two will be screaming at each other like all the rest.’
‘Uh, no,’ I said. ‘I think I'm doing pretty well here; we actually talk. We're honest.’
Dad snorted. ‘Honest. I’m honest.’
‘Whatever, Dad. M- and I actually talk about how we feel and we don’t wait for shit to blow up before we do. I know exactly why I’m in this relationship and so does he. If that changes anytime soon it won’t be the end of the world for us.’
‘We’ll see,’ Dad said.
It’s funny; Dad has seen how repressive and strangling the conventional rules of marriage are, and have been for a lot of people. He even admits it. But it’s a weird sort of reflex to not only see people conform to that convention, but see them twist in it and suffer. Maybe that's a Baptist thing. For all that the folks I went to church with clapped and congratulated each other for marrying, they practically salivated with pleasure when those marriages cracked and crumbled.
There was this strange mentality: 'You thought you were so special. So different. But you're not. You're just as miserable as I am. You're no different.'
This must be a black Baptist thing. Yeah.
In any case, I refuse to conform to it. And then people can marvel at my unconventional happiness.
As well as kiss my ass.
...
In related news - related to my sister's marriage and my and M-'s relationship - I had been thinking that this would be the summer I bring a boy home. Yeah, sort of a big thing. But not really. Folks go on trips all the time!
But with the destructin of my sister's marriage, where the hell will we stay?!
Yeah. It's all about me. It IS!
I said we were going strong and he said something like, 'You two will be screaming at each other like all the rest.’
‘Uh, no,’ I said. ‘I think I'm doing pretty well here; we actually talk. We're honest.’
Dad snorted. ‘Honest. I’m honest.’
‘Whatever, Dad. M- and I actually talk about how we feel and we don’t wait for shit to blow up before we do. I know exactly why I’m in this relationship and so does he. If that changes anytime soon it won’t be the end of the world for us.’
‘We’ll see,’ Dad said.
It’s funny; Dad has seen how repressive and strangling the conventional rules of marriage are, and have been for a lot of people. He even admits it. But it’s a weird sort of reflex to not only see people conform to that convention, but see them twist in it and suffer. Maybe that's a Baptist thing. For all that the folks I went to church with clapped and congratulated each other for marrying, they practically salivated with pleasure when those marriages cracked and crumbled.
There was this strange mentality: 'You thought you were so special. So different. But you're not. You're just as miserable as I am. You're no different.'
This must be a black Baptist thing. Yeah.
In any case, I refuse to conform to it. And then people can marvel at my unconventional happiness.
As well as kiss my ass.
...
In related news - related to my sister's marriage and my and M-'s relationship - I had been thinking that this would be the summer I bring a boy home. Yeah, sort of a big thing. But not really. Folks go on trips all the time!
But with the destructin of my sister's marriage, where the hell will we stay?!
Yeah. It's all about me. It IS!
Monday, March 08, 2010
if only the poor were more like me!
If only poor people understood nutrition! The Fat Nutritionist
That post up there, btw, is brilliant. Unfortunately, she had to shut down comments because some folks were deliberately misreading her thesis, which I will repeat and clarify for you:
You want people to eat better? Give them enough money, a place for cooking and storage, and access to a decent variety of food.
There. That's her thesis in a nutshell.
I'll boil it down even further:
So, if we want other people to shop and consume like us, in our hip, healthy, and globally conscious ways, then they're going to need what we have.
What do I have that most really poor people (earning < $16k/annually) do not?
I have a properly operating kitchen, with counter space and lighting.
I have a gas stove that lights when I turn it on. (And all burners that work.)
I have a large refrigerator that freezes the things that need to be frozen, and a fridge that keeps my butter from melting and my food from spoiling.
I have a pantry that is free from bugs and mice so I can store dry goods there.
I have a running sink with water that isn't all gunky or rusty.
I have a mexican mini-mart, a walgreens, AND a large, clean Dominick's all within short walking distance.
I have a dude who sells fresh fruit/veg from the back of his truck during the spring/summer.
I also have about a $50/week grocery shopping allowance. Sometimes, I go over my allowance and buy $100 in groceries/week.
I live in a part of town that does not have slum landlords.
I have a few bus lines within walking distance and a train line.
I work in a part of the city that hosts farmers markets during the summer that I can visit on my lunch hour.
I have Bon Appetit, Saveur, Cook's Country Kitchen, Cook's Illustrated and a stack of other cookbooks from Borders and friends in my kitchen.
I have internet access to Epicurious.com.
I have a wok, pots, pans, serving platters, mixing bowls, forks, utensils, measuring cups, cutting boards and towels.
I have a place to store them.
I also have a job, no kids, healthcare, access to public transportation, flexible work hours, and adequate housing.
Basically, I am middle class, with typical bourgeois middle class tastes and habits.
...
Here is a completely irrelevant personal story (irrelevant because personal stories, while illustrative, are not prescriptive):
My parents were poor before they were middle class; the clothes I wore were not my own but hand-me-downs from another family. We received bags of groceries from anonymous church members - there would be a package of Peppridge Farm cookies in one of those bags. Or a bottle of Tang. A block of gov't cheese could last a really long time - for tacos, grilled cheese sandwiches, ham/cheese sandwiches, on crackers, in the toaster oven slapped over white bread.
We were poor but we ate dinner every night: chicken, pork chop or steak, a salad, rice and a desert (jello or ice cream). A glass of whole fat milk. In the morning, it was a hot cereal, orange juice or toast with butter and then to the bus.
Eventually, our meals got more complicated - coinciding with my mom going back to work and my dad getting a better job. Then we were shakily middle class.
Much less from organic farmers market to farmers market.
I've only been in my Aunt D-'s apartment two or three times. It is so stuffy, I want to gag. Incense smells try to cover up other smells, but don't. And in the hallway outside, that splotch is either shit or vomit. I won't go in her kitchen. (I have never been invited to see her kitchen.) I don't dare ask to use the bathroom.
Once, when I dropped off some clothes and extra pots/pans/cooking pans, she kept us standing in her living room. There are only two bedrooms in this 'garden' apartment and I think she sleeps on the couch in the living room, giving the bedrooms to her daughter and son. She complains about the landlord who won't fix anything; he just collects the reimbursements from the gov't for providing Section 8 vouchers. She says, though, that once my cousin reaches 18, their rent is going to double or my male cousin will have to move out. (18 year old black boys, it seems are a threat to building.)
Down the street from Aunt D-, there is a KFC, McDonalds, a fried fish shack, a Chinese joint and a couple of gas stations, where you can buy cigs, bottled water or soda pop. The nearest real supermarket is in Hyde Park which is about a couple of different buses away. That's where the Walgreens is, too.
She doesn't have bus cards, so I gave her a few with $10 on them. In Chicago, one bus ride is $2.25. How far can she get on that? And how often? You do that math.
...
At my very tony Presbyterian church we once had a social services program to help provide healthier meals to really low-income neighbors. (You'd have to find these neighbors with a magnifying glass and move a few neighborhoods over, but they're there.) A friend served on this task force and they were told to help develop and test cook menus for this project.
But there were rules:
Think healthier ingredients, not necessarily 'healthy'.
The meal's ingredients couldn't cost more than $10, total.
It would have to be enough to serve at least 4.
Meal preparation couldn't involve more than 1-2 utensils.
The meal had to be cooked/served in the same dish.
It had to be able to be cooked on a hot plate.
Task force members could not assume refrigeration was available.
When you or I are cooking 'healthy' how many of these rules do we break?
It isn't class warfare to point out that the poor live differently from us. To ignore that fact maintains our caste system rather than demolishing it.
So until we are prepared to solve the 'problem' of their poverty first, perhaps we should keep mum with our 'advice' to poor families about making better nutritional 'choices'.
(And that means you, Jamie Oliver.)
That post up there, btw, is brilliant. Unfortunately, she had to shut down comments because some folks were deliberately misreading her thesis, which I will repeat and clarify for you:
You want people to eat better? Give them enough money, a place for cooking and storage, and access to a decent variety of food.
There. That's her thesis in a nutshell.
I'll boil it down even further:
So, if we want other people to shop and consume like us, in our hip, healthy, and globally conscious ways, then they're going to need what we have.
What do I have that most really poor people (earning < $16k/annually) do not?
I have a properly operating kitchen, with counter space and lighting.
I have a gas stove that lights when I turn it on. (And all burners that work.)
I have a large refrigerator that freezes the things that need to be frozen, and a fridge that keeps my butter from melting and my food from spoiling.
I have a pantry that is free from bugs and mice so I can store dry goods there.
I have a running sink with water that isn't all gunky or rusty.
I have a mexican mini-mart, a walgreens, AND a large, clean Dominick's all within short walking distance.
I have a dude who sells fresh fruit/veg from the back of his truck during the spring/summer.
I also have about a $50/week grocery shopping allowance. Sometimes, I go over my allowance and buy $100 in groceries/week.
I live in a part of town that does not have slum landlords.
I have a few bus lines within walking distance and a train line.
I work in a part of the city that hosts farmers markets during the summer that I can visit on my lunch hour.
I have Bon Appetit, Saveur, Cook's Country Kitchen, Cook's Illustrated and a stack of other cookbooks from Borders and friends in my kitchen.
I have internet access to Epicurious.com.
I have a wok, pots, pans, serving platters, mixing bowls, forks, utensils, measuring cups, cutting boards and towels.
I have a place to store them.
I also have a job, no kids, healthcare, access to public transportation, flexible work hours, and adequate housing.
Basically, I am middle class, with typical bourgeois middle class tastes and habits.
...
Here is a completely irrelevant personal story (irrelevant because personal stories, while illustrative, are not prescriptive):
My parents were poor before they were middle class; the clothes I wore were not my own but hand-me-downs from another family. We received bags of groceries from anonymous church members - there would be a package of Peppridge Farm cookies in one of those bags. Or a bottle of Tang. A block of gov't cheese could last a really long time - for tacos, grilled cheese sandwiches, ham/cheese sandwiches, on crackers, in the toaster oven slapped over white bread.
We were poor but we ate dinner every night: chicken, pork chop or steak, a salad, rice and a desert (jello or ice cream). A glass of whole fat milk. In the morning, it was a hot cereal, orange juice or toast with butter and then to the bus.
Eventually, our meals got more complicated - coinciding with my mom going back to work and my dad getting a better job. Then we were shakily middle class.
There was a Chinese supermarket two blocks away for emergencies (we didn't trust their meat after one bad incident), and if we had to drive to a supermarket, there was a Vons or Ralphs only 15 min away by car. I remember going with mom every week after she got home from work to do grocery shopping. I hated unloading our 10 or 12 bags of groceries, my arms held stiff, the plastic handles making red rows in my skin.
Think of that. 10-12 full bags of groceries. Every two weeks. For a family of four. Without fail.
Whether we want to acknowledge it, this is the middle class standard most of us have running in the backs of our minds when we tell poor people to eat, or grocery shop, better. We never have their memories in our heads. We don't think about how the hell they're getting 10-12 heavy shopping bags from the supermarket 2 miles away from their house, on foot, with only a couple small kids to help them.
Much less from organic farmers market to farmers market.
...
Do you know where poor people live? Oh, not your hipster living in Ukrainian Village in an apartment no bigger than two cubicles at your office. Real poor people. Like, over in Greater Grand Crossing or Austin. Or Lawndale. Or Chicago Heights. Like, in those places you can see from the Green Line headed toward Cottage Grove. Or those places you see if you take the #66 bus all the waaaay west to the end of the line. Ever check out the apartments in that neighborhood that always sees the police action? Or the 'hood that always gets the helicopters hovering over it? Do you know how really poor people live?I've only been in my Aunt D-'s apartment two or three times. It is so stuffy, I want to gag. Incense smells try to cover up other smells, but don't. And in the hallway outside, that splotch is either shit or vomit. I won't go in her kitchen. (I have never been invited to see her kitchen.) I don't dare ask to use the bathroom.
Once, when I dropped off some clothes and extra pots/pans/cooking pans, she kept us standing in her living room. There are only two bedrooms in this 'garden' apartment and I think she sleeps on the couch in the living room, giving the bedrooms to her daughter and son. She complains about the landlord who won't fix anything; he just collects the reimbursements from the gov't for providing Section 8 vouchers. She says, though, that once my cousin reaches 18, their rent is going to double or my male cousin will have to move out. (18 year old black boys, it seems are a threat to building.)
Down the street from Aunt D-, there is a KFC, McDonalds, a fried fish shack, a Chinese joint and a couple of gas stations, where you can buy cigs, bottled water or soda pop. The nearest real supermarket is in Hyde Park which is about a couple of different buses away. That's where the Walgreens is, too.
She doesn't have bus cards, so I gave her a few with $10 on them. In Chicago, one bus ride is $2.25. How far can she get on that? And how often? You do that math.
...
At my very tony Presbyterian church we once had a social services program to help provide healthier meals to really low-income neighbors. (You'd have to find these neighbors with a magnifying glass and move a few neighborhoods over, but they're there.) A friend served on this task force and they were told to help develop and test cook menus for this project.
But there were rules:
Think healthier ingredients, not necessarily 'healthy'.
The meal's ingredients couldn't cost more than $10, total.
It would have to be enough to serve at least 4.
Meal preparation couldn't involve more than 1-2 utensils.
The meal had to be cooked/served in the same dish.
It had to be able to be cooked on a hot plate.
Task force members could not assume refrigeration was available.
When you or I are cooking 'healthy' how many of these rules do we break?
It isn't class warfare to point out that the poor live differently from us. To ignore that fact maintains our caste system rather than demolishing it.
So until we are prepared to solve the 'problem' of their poverty first, perhaps we should keep mum with our 'advice' to poor families about making better nutritional 'choices'.
(And that means you, Jamie Oliver.)
Monday, March 01, 2010
my espresso bean mood...lifting
Reasons for the sudden uplift:
1. M- and I are still going strong. We've both admitted to minor, ridiculous jealousies; we don't need to fill the air with chatter; we're still the most boring couple ever; the sex is still...good god; we're both frakking adults about shit (like work stress, scheduling, my HoboMouth, listening to the other person) and I'm getting better at being part of a public couple. My travel schedule to Springfield isn't as horrendous as some have to endure, but for me, it's annoying as hell; the best part about coming back is emailing him from the train and telling him how I missed him while I was down there.
He noted, "You always miss me more when you go to Springfield." (Then he makes a problematic joke about thalidomide, which never fails to make me guffaw, which is equally problematic. I know. I'll repent later.)
And I do miss him more. I've found that he steadies me when work makes me nuts. The idea of not having him to quiet my crazy mind almost brings tears to my eyes. I wouldn't want to deal with what I'm dealing with at work if I didn't have him to come back to.
Uh. Yeah. Anyway...
2. I was accepted into the 2010 Spring Leadership and Policy Institute through the NWLC! I'm so excited about this opportunity! I've said to myself that if I was going to be serious about a public office career, then chances like this would be key. And, they paid for my lodging! AND - the White House Project bootcamp is coming to Chicago in May! Maybe I'll go after that, too.
3. I'm realizing how my satisfaction is so often connected to my core strengths. As a leadership exercise, we were given this book and my 5 core strengths turned out to be: Ideation, Input, Focus, Achiever, and Connectedness. Apparently, when things go out of whack or I feel that these needs of mine aren't being met, I go to my Dark Side: my dark, sarcastic, bitter, negative, highly critical side. It's not pretty. But I'm becoming aware of it - and how it can really negatively impact a team. So I'm trying really hard to not indulge in my fits of grrrr! It's not productive. (Though I still really like the Stockholm Syndrome analogy. It's apt.)
So there you have it. I'm coming back into the light - and I achieved something I never would have achieved a year ago! (And, clearly, my revamped resume rocks.)
1. M- and I are still going strong. We've both admitted to minor, ridiculous jealousies; we don't need to fill the air with chatter; we're still the most boring couple ever; the sex is still...good god; we're both frakking adults about shit (like work stress, scheduling, my HoboMouth, listening to the other person) and I'm getting better at being part of a public couple. My travel schedule to Springfield isn't as horrendous as some have to endure, but for me, it's annoying as hell; the best part about coming back is emailing him from the train and telling him how I missed him while I was down there.
He noted, "You always miss me more when you go to Springfield." (Then he makes a problematic joke about thalidomide, which never fails to make me guffaw, which is equally problematic. I know. I'll repent later.)
And I do miss him more. I've found that he steadies me when work makes me nuts. The idea of not having him to quiet my crazy mind almost brings tears to my eyes. I wouldn't want to deal with what I'm dealing with at work if I didn't have him to come back to.
Uh. Yeah. Anyway...
2. I was accepted into the 2010 Spring Leadership and Policy Institute through the NWLC! I'm so excited about this opportunity! I've said to myself that if I was going to be serious about a public office career, then chances like this would be key. And, they paid for my lodging! AND - the White House Project bootcamp is coming to Chicago in May! Maybe I'll go after that, too.
3. I'm realizing how my satisfaction is so often connected to my core strengths. As a leadership exercise, we were given this book and my 5 core strengths turned out to be: Ideation, Input, Focus, Achiever, and Connectedness. Apparently, when things go out of whack or I feel that these needs of mine aren't being met, I go to my Dark Side: my dark, sarcastic, bitter, negative, highly critical side. It's not pretty. But I'm becoming aware of it - and how it can really negatively impact a team. So I'm trying really hard to not indulge in my fits of grrrr! It's not productive. (Though I still really like the Stockholm Syndrome analogy. It's apt.)
So there you have it. I'm coming back into the light - and I achieved something I never would have achieved a year ago! (And, clearly, my revamped resume rocks.)
Friday, February 26, 2010
dear GOP: help my friend get healthcare
Dear GOP:
I'm so glad you're concerned with the plight of the millions of American people (especially women) who are either under-insured or uninsured. Seeing your concern during the Healthcare Summit yesterday prompted me to write you. I'm actually hoping you can help a friend of mine.
She's a very hardworking woman and a rather wonderful friend. (She makes the best hummus, ever!) Like others in the financial services industry, she was laid off a few years ago from a multi-million dollar financial services firm in Chicago and she has only recently been able to find steady work as a sub-contractor for a federal gov't office. In the 3 years between her initial layoff and her contract work now, she has gone back to school and started her own business. But when her rather generous severance package ran out, she had to give up COBRA coverage and purchase an individual healthcare insurance policy.
Then she ran into a few issues. The economy got very soft and she needed to supplement her small income by working some uneven retail jobs. I don't know if you know, but most hourly retail jobs don't pay benefits. Her business wasn't really making a profit and her savings were dwindling. Retail only paid her several hundred dollars a month and her expenses (rent, food, utilities, insurance) were eating the majority of her savings. Pretty soon, her savings were gone. So last year, she went on food stamps and reluctantly canceled her individual health insurance. Later that year, she was late with her rent and when her landlord started to make noises about eviction, she moved in with a friend with a spare room because she was literally steps away from being homeless.
You should know she discovered a lump, too. She's had this lump for about a year now and has never had it checked. Breast cancer is rampant in her family history. She's working a full time job with this federal government office but only as a contractor, which doesn't offer benefits of any kind. So even though she's earning some money, she has to put a lot of it into savings in order to get ready to move out - she can't live in her friend's spare room forever. Anyway, the point is she hasn't gotten her lump checked. It's still there.
I keep telling her there are public services in Illinois for breast screening for low income women (since she only earned $16,000.00 last year, I think she qualifies as low income.) But she refuses because she doesn't want to get slammed with a preexisting condition when she finally gets managed care. And now that flu season is still kicking around in Chicago, she's got this bad cough and her job won't let her take any days off so she's going into work sick. It would be great if she could get a few antibiotics into her.
Can you help her? It would be great if you could let her know that you guys have a plan to resolve her situation.
Looking forward to hearing from you,
A Concerned Friend
I'm so glad you're concerned with the plight of the millions of American people (especially women) who are either under-insured or uninsured. Seeing your concern during the Healthcare Summit yesterday prompted me to write you. I'm actually hoping you can help a friend of mine.
She's a very hardworking woman and a rather wonderful friend. (She makes the best hummus, ever!) Like others in the financial services industry, she was laid off a few years ago from a multi-million dollar financial services firm in Chicago and she has only recently been able to find steady work as a sub-contractor for a federal gov't office. In the 3 years between her initial layoff and her contract work now, she has gone back to school and started her own business. But when her rather generous severance package ran out, she had to give up COBRA coverage and purchase an individual healthcare insurance policy.
Then she ran into a few issues. The economy got very soft and she needed to supplement her small income by working some uneven retail jobs. I don't know if you know, but most hourly retail jobs don't pay benefits. Her business wasn't really making a profit and her savings were dwindling. Retail only paid her several hundred dollars a month and her expenses (rent, food, utilities, insurance) were eating the majority of her savings. Pretty soon, her savings were gone. So last year, she went on food stamps and reluctantly canceled her individual health insurance. Later that year, she was late with her rent and when her landlord started to make noises about eviction, she moved in with a friend with a spare room because she was literally steps away from being homeless.
You should know she discovered a lump, too. She's had this lump for about a year now and has never had it checked. Breast cancer is rampant in her family history. She's working a full time job with this federal government office but only as a contractor, which doesn't offer benefits of any kind. So even though she's earning some money, she has to put a lot of it into savings in order to get ready to move out - she can't live in her friend's spare room forever. Anyway, the point is she hasn't gotten her lump checked. It's still there.
I keep telling her there are public services in Illinois for breast screening for low income women (since she only earned $16,000.00 last year, I think she qualifies as low income.) But she refuses because she doesn't want to get slammed with a preexisting condition when she finally gets managed care. And now that flu season is still kicking around in Chicago, she's got this bad cough and her job won't let her take any days off so she's going into work sick. It would be great if she could get a few antibiotics into her.
Can you help her? It would be great if you could let her know that you guys have a plan to resolve her situation.
Looking forward to hearing from you,
A Concerned Friend
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
when doing good is like being taken hostage
Working for a non profit human services org in this environment (i.e., Illinois) is like being taken hostage and developing a bad case of Stockholm Syndrome. There's nowhere else to go, you're grateful you still have a job (though you don't know how long that'll last), you're dependent on the vicissitudes of a sector that's completely unsustainable in its current form, as well as the political whim of a bunch of downstate reps who don't give a shit and, as a result, you start identifying with the conditions of your hostage-taking:
Of course it's right and natural for me to tamp down any resentment that my last two promotions have gone completely unrewarded.
Of course it's an equal trade that, instead of merit raises for the past 3 years, we should be happy for random jeans days.
Of course it's ok to work over 40 hrs/week and look at your annual compensation and think, This is not making sense but hey, it's for a good cause.
Sounding bitter?
You bet. And I'm not the only one. There is a growing air of dissatisfaction and resentment growing in the ranks here. And I'm not even talking about frontline folks who have sacrificed a hell of a lot more than the rest of us. But in the so-called 'high performing' team, the team that is perceived to receive a lot of perks, we are beginning not to feel so inspired by being so high-performing.
Our high performance comes at a price and we're tapped out. Literally and figuratively.
Our resentment isn't so much about the fiscal situation we're in. We know whose fault this is; we know our sector has been bent over a barrell and frakked for the past 20 years by folks down in Springfield.
Our resentment is burbling because so much is being heaped on us, things are starting to fall apart and instead of pulling back, the heaping continues. In a healthy environment, some of our initiatives make sense. But we're not healthy; we're in constant crisis mode. There's an expectation that resources get cut but of course output not only continues but triples. Ok, I understand that mindset. But sooner or later, we're all going to start reaching our breaking points.
Sooner or later, the uncertainty of being on unemployment is going to seem a LOT more appealing than putting up with this crap.
At least when you're on unemployment, you get to rest. You get to breathe. You get to slow down a little. When you're on unemployment (and I have been) you don't find yourself taking anti-anxiety meds in the middle of the day.
And I think half the team is just about there.
I think about what it was like leading a union. Ha ha. In this kind of situation, dept stewards like me would be advocating union members first to log all their hours and the kind of work they do, then get ready to 'work to rule.' It was a low pressure, but effective, work action when the administration didn't feel it was necessary to compensate for the actual work that was being produced. If you're only supposed to work 20 hrs a week, only work 20 hrs a week. If that meant curtailing office hours, so be it. If that meant cutting short on class prep, so be it. The goal was to get compensated for ALL the work you performed, not just part. If you had 1600 union members suddenly working to rule, a lot of shit didn't get done and the administration would be forced to rethink their pay structure.
Of course, non profits aren't usually unionized. In fact, our employment handbook makes unionization grounds for discipline and/or dismissal. (Ironic, huh?)
But goddammit - we are getting close to some kind of Norma Rae moment. Just saying that's what the tea leaves look like.
Huh. I'm beginning to see how one becomes a Teabagger.
Monday, February 22, 2010
the woods apology: asian mothers and ethnic programming for the win
When Tiger Woods's infidelities broke into the public sphere last year I joked with some friends that when straight-laced, boring, repressed folks crack, they go big or go home. On some smaller, deeper level, I even sympathized with his crack up: when a revered father dies the mooring that steadied you disappears so, of course, you go off course. My own personal experience mirrored his, in a way; when my mother died, I went through my own 'grief sex' period - years where I slept around like a sailor, to feel anything that would break through the white noise of my mother's death.
But it took an offhand comment from an old college friend about Woods' press conference on my Facebook page to look at Woods through a very familiar, and particular, cultural lens- a lens that those in the media have, of course, overlooked.
From my friend on Facebook:
"Tiger Wood's apology (and his mother's reaction during it) made him seem more Asian American to me...
Suddenly it all clicked: brother may look black (to some people) but, if there's one thing I know about mix-raced asians, if the mother is asian, you are gonna get a huge dose of asian culture exposure (read: guilt) and it will be hardwired into you even if you have to adapt to other cultures (whether you like it or not, mama's gonna rig it)...so his cultivated characterless-ness, the extreme privacy and (surprise!) the lapsed Buddhism angle, coupled with the public self-shaming in front of family (not wife but elders)...hmmmmm...this all sounds very familiar. Stern mommy in the front row completed the scene.
All the media asked: why the hell did he feel he need to do that public apology? Because every bit of his asian upbringing told him this was the proper thing to do!
Once I saw him in that all too familiar formation with his mother who is so often un-present in his media representation, I suddenly realized who was responsible for the daily grunt work of making him into a man: the feeding, the schlepping and the occasional (or not so occasional) slap. I saw him in a room full of aunties, sitting in a corner and being told to be quiet while they talked business. This is a bound to be an intense part of his psychic make-up...and probably more crucial to a private sense of self, given the fact that American media wants to produce a public image of blackness for him.
The media didn't understand the mom's stern posture, followed by hug gesture...they thought she was cold...and maybe in their eyes she is...but what I saw was a reversion to certain basic childhood patterns. Nugget from my childhood: Southeast Asian moms always make you tell them what you did wrong before they tell you never to do it again.
So, this explains why Tiger Woods would not let go of his Asian-ness, despite the criticism by whites and blacks that he was trying to shirk his blackness. His attempt to multi-identify was seen as a cop-out by people who only saw obsessively in terms of black and white...but his core sense of self was constituted by rituals of pain and pleasure that came from some powerful asian american mother-son bond(age).
When mom gets to handle the discipline, she also gets to handle the ethnic programming. With my sisters who have married outside of the race, I have noticed that they excessively program vietnamese-ness into their children's early self-constitution (like a trojan horse computer virus) just because they know that at some point, some other culture will "claim" their children.
Case in point: Throughout my early adulthood, I would encounter my eldest sister's children taunting me because they could speak better Vietnamese than me and felt themselves better attuned to Vietnamese-ness. Now, they hardly ever want to speak Vietnamese, because they're blond and nordic-looking...but almost always, especially at emotional moments, they revert to classic patterns of vietnamese behavior."
I responded:
"Oh my god, yes! My mom was far scarier than dad when it came to discipline - and the stealth bomb she would pull out was 'you're a bad daughter.' (It was understood that this meant I was a bad Filipina daughter.) Responsibility, obligation, duty, protecting the family name and upholding family integrity. Seen as an asian son-almost every aspect of his behavior is understandable."
I'm fascinated at the way our mainstream culture is perpetually tone-deaf to the nuances of multiple cultural identities. When I looked at his press conference again, the whole thing screamed Asian family discipline and apology. The focus on self-respect, restraint, the ultimate importance of family and the lessons that family can teach, rather than the 'lessons' taught by over-indulgent celebrity and vice; for those of us who grew up with an Asian parent, these are familiar themes that were pounded into us throughout childhood. But then, also, the discipline of the public apology, the ritual of apologizing to those you've shamed: the inner family first, then outward. His public, and the media, is last. Who's first? His mother and wife (and the presence of the wife is immaterial - the presence of the mother is primary.)
The press was miffed there was no Q&A - well, the press was just a minor necessity. The real focus were those people sitting in the front row. The apology was less a PR stunt (though it served as one, too) than a necessary step in repairing his bonds with his Asian identity and upbringing - embodied by his mother, in particular. My takeaway: don't mess with Asian mothers, man. They'll make you apologize in public.
But it took an offhand comment from an old college friend about Woods' press conference on my Facebook page to look at Woods through a very familiar, and particular, cultural lens- a lens that those in the media have, of course, overlooked.
From my friend on Facebook:
"Tiger Wood's apology (and his mother's reaction during it) made him seem more Asian American to me...
Suddenly it all clicked: brother may look black (to some people) but, if there's one thing I know about mix-raced asians, if the mother is asian, you are gonna get a huge dose of asian culture exposure (read: guilt) and it will be hardwired into you even if you have to adapt to other cultures (whether you like it or not, mama's gonna rig it)...so his cultivated characterless-ness, the extreme privacy and (surprise!) the lapsed Buddhism angle, coupled with the public self-shaming in front of family (not wife but elders)...hmmmmm...this all sounds very familiar. Stern mommy in the front row completed the scene.
All the media asked: why the hell did he feel he need to do that public apology? Because every bit of his asian upbringing told him this was the proper thing to do!
Once I saw him in that all too familiar formation with his mother who is so often un-present in his media representation, I suddenly realized who was responsible for the daily grunt work of making him into a man: the feeding, the schlepping and the occasional (or not so occasional) slap. I saw him in a room full of aunties, sitting in a corner and being told to be quiet while they talked business. This is a bound to be an intense part of his psychic make-up...and probably more crucial to a private sense of self, given the fact that American media wants to produce a public image of blackness for him.
The media didn't understand the mom's stern posture, followed by hug gesture...they thought she was cold...and maybe in their eyes she is...but what I saw was a reversion to certain basic childhood patterns. Nugget from my childhood: Southeast Asian moms always make you tell them what you did wrong before they tell you never to do it again.
So, this explains why Tiger Woods would not let go of his Asian-ness, despite the criticism by whites and blacks that he was trying to shirk his blackness. His attempt to multi-identify was seen as a cop-out by people who only saw obsessively in terms of black and white...but his core sense of self was constituted by rituals of pain and pleasure that came from some powerful asian american mother-son bond(age).
When mom gets to handle the discipline, she also gets to handle the ethnic programming. With my sisters who have married outside of the race, I have noticed that they excessively program vietnamese-ness into their children's early self-constitution (like a trojan horse computer virus) just because they know that at some point, some other culture will "claim" their children.
Case in point: Throughout my early adulthood, I would encounter my eldest sister's children taunting me because they could speak better Vietnamese than me and felt themselves better attuned to Vietnamese-ness. Now, they hardly ever want to speak Vietnamese, because they're blond and nordic-looking...but almost always, especially at emotional moments, they revert to classic patterns of vietnamese behavior."
I responded:
"Oh my god, yes! My mom was far scarier than dad when it came to discipline - and the stealth bomb she would pull out was 'you're a bad daughter.' (It was understood that this meant I was a bad Filipina daughter.) Responsibility, obligation, duty, protecting the family name and upholding family integrity. Seen as an asian son-almost every aspect of his behavior is understandable."
I'm fascinated at the way our mainstream culture is perpetually tone-deaf to the nuances of multiple cultural identities. When I looked at his press conference again, the whole thing screamed Asian family discipline and apology. The focus on self-respect, restraint, the ultimate importance of family and the lessons that family can teach, rather than the 'lessons' taught by over-indulgent celebrity and vice; for those of us who grew up with an Asian parent, these are familiar themes that were pounded into us throughout childhood. But then, also, the discipline of the public apology, the ritual of apologizing to those you've shamed: the inner family first, then outward. His public, and the media, is last. Who's first? His mother and wife (and the presence of the wife is immaterial - the presence of the mother is primary.)
The press was miffed there was no Q&A - well, the press was just a minor necessity. The real focus were those people sitting in the front row. The apology was less a PR stunt (though it served as one, too) than a necessary step in repairing his bonds with his Asian identity and upbringing - embodied by his mother, in particular. My takeaway: don't mess with Asian mothers, man. They'll make you apologize in public.
Thursday, February 18, 2010
ready, set, go! maybe.
From the House chamber gallery yesterday, I watched my state reps chit chat, talk on their iPhones, surf the web, eat lunch, snooze, doodle, confab and a few of them were even paying attention to the bill debate going on. What follows is a very paraphrased version of the proceedings:
Dem Rep: ...and so I think my Baby-Daddy registry amendment to bill Such and Such is a good idea.
GOP Rep: Uh, I don't get it. I'm sure my esteemed colleague knows his community best but I'm not sure I get the point.
Dem Rep: Well, there are baby daddies - or maybe not. But we won't know unless there's a list of them. A list of Baby Daddies.
GOP Rep: I still don't get it.
(And the debate continues like this for a while. Then - )
Dem Majority Whip: (standing) This amendment makes no sense; pull it.
Dem Rep: (sigh) I respectfully withdraw my amendment.
GOPRep: I still don't get it!
Sith Lord of the House (aka, Speaker): Next bill, Clerk.
Clerk: On a resolution protesting terrorism, Miranda rights, the use of the super max prison for terrorists who have been Mirandized and extolling all things good about America.
Sith Lord: Who wrote this?
Patriotic GOP Rep: That would be me; I really think it's important to protect our state and read this resolution on the floor because the Obama administration is going to destroy everything we hold dear and this resolution will somehow be meaningful.
Sith Lord: (hard stare and sigh) Why can't this go to committee?
Patriotic GOP Rep: Because I want to read it on the floor. My colleagues agree with me.
(tiny GOP minority cheers)
Sith Lord: Are you sure you don't want this to go to committee?
Patriotic GOP Rep: No. Read it.
Sith Lord: I say we don't read it and I have this handy procedural rule that will allow me to kill it. Duly killed.
Patriotic GOP Rep: I protest!
Sith Lord: I call for a vote: shall I be Sith Lord and have the right to kill this puny resolution or shall I not? Finger vote!
(computer screens all light up)
Sith Lord: 69 votes for me and none for you. Everybody, to my chambers! (exeunt)
And so on for the next hour. I had to give it to the scrappy Patriotic GOP member; while Sith Lord was conferring with his leaders, he tried to reintroduce his resolution but the Sith Lord's second just repeated the procedural vote results from a paper and ignored him over his protests. Up in the gallery, a woman leaned over to me and whispered, "That man over there just got dissed, didn't he?"
I whispered back, "Big time."
She sighed. "This is why nothing ever gets done."
My COO, who was waving to her aunt on the floor, leaned over. "After seeing this, don't you want to be down there?"
"No. I would lose my shit."
She gave me a hard glance. "You know you love it. This is all a show, and you know that. The real work happens in those committee meetings. That guy knew he wouldn't get his amendment. And he knew his resolution wouldn't make it out of his mouth." Nodding down at the now silent Patriotic GOP member.
"And that makes me want to do this, why?"
"You're still young enough to try this and either make it or not. But you have about 3 years to plan. You should make a decision soon. My aunt can help."
Later, at the train station to return to Chicago, my COO introduced me to her uncle, a retired blue collar worker whose main job is to make sure Rep Auntie X made it to her meetings in Springfield from the south side.
As we were shaking hands, the COO said, "She's feeling the call."
Uncle X gave me a look and said, "Well now."
"We'll see," I said. "I'm interested but ..."
"Well," he said. "My wife won't tell you this, but I'm not anybody's elected anything. With every election, the quality is going down. They're getting stupider and stupider. If you're worth it, and my niece doesn't back people who aren't worth it, then you should do it. You'll be needed."
On the train, my COO said. "You'll need 3 years to get a mortgage, a fundraising base and a network. You have a strong network already partly in place. And you need a target. Westside districts will be hard; northside might be doable; southside would be easier. My aunt's would be ideal."
"I don't want to move to the south side!"
"Delia Christina, you need to be serious. If you're going to do this, the DO THIS."
This was still on my mind when I got home, exhausted. If one day of basically nothing exhausted me, what would a whole job do to me? If one session made me disgusted, what would hundreds of them do? If I secretly thought elected official X was an asshat, what would prevent me from calling him that to his face? And if people like me (or you) don't step up, what then? What about my writing? What about the book that's been growing inside me? What about my relationship? And have I said I don't want a frakking mortgage!?
So that's what's on my mind: trying to plan the next three years to maybe be ready for a go in '14. Or not.
Dem Rep: ...and so I think my Baby-Daddy registry amendment to bill Such and Such is a good idea.
GOP Rep: Uh, I don't get it. I'm sure my esteemed colleague knows his community best but I'm not sure I get the point.
Dem Rep: Well, there are baby daddies - or maybe not. But we won't know unless there's a list of them. A list of Baby Daddies.
GOP Rep: I still don't get it.
(And the debate continues like this for a while. Then - )
Dem Majority Whip: (standing) This amendment makes no sense; pull it.
Dem Rep: (sigh) I respectfully withdraw my amendment.
GOPRep: I still don't get it!
Sith Lord of the House (aka, Speaker): Next bill, Clerk.
Clerk: On a resolution protesting terrorism, Miranda rights, the use of the super max prison for terrorists who have been Mirandized and extolling all things good about America.
Sith Lord: Who wrote this?
Patriotic GOP Rep: That would be me; I really think it's important to protect our state and read this resolution on the floor because the Obama administration is going to destroy everything we hold dear and this resolution will somehow be meaningful.
Sith Lord: (hard stare and sigh) Why can't this go to committee?
Patriotic GOP Rep: Because I want to read it on the floor. My colleagues agree with me.
(tiny GOP minority cheers)
Sith Lord: Are you sure you don't want this to go to committee?
Patriotic GOP Rep: No. Read it.
Sith Lord: I say we don't read it and I have this handy procedural rule that will allow me to kill it. Duly killed.
Patriotic GOP Rep: I protest!
Sith Lord: I call for a vote: shall I be Sith Lord and have the right to kill this puny resolution or shall I not? Finger vote!
(computer screens all light up)
Sith Lord: 69 votes for me and none for you. Everybody, to my chambers! (exeunt)
And so on for the next hour. I had to give it to the scrappy Patriotic GOP member; while Sith Lord was conferring with his leaders, he tried to reintroduce his resolution but the Sith Lord's second just repeated the procedural vote results from a paper and ignored him over his protests. Up in the gallery, a woman leaned over to me and whispered, "That man over there just got dissed, didn't he?"
I whispered back, "Big time."
She sighed. "This is why nothing ever gets done."
My COO, who was waving to her aunt on the floor, leaned over. "After seeing this, don't you want to be down there?"
"No. I would lose my shit."
She gave me a hard glance. "You know you love it. This is all a show, and you know that. The real work happens in those committee meetings. That guy knew he wouldn't get his amendment. And he knew his resolution wouldn't make it out of his mouth." Nodding down at the now silent Patriotic GOP member.
"And that makes me want to do this, why?"
"You're still young enough to try this and either make it or not. But you have about 3 years to plan. You should make a decision soon. My aunt can help."
Later, at the train station to return to Chicago, my COO introduced me to her uncle, a retired blue collar worker whose main job is to make sure Rep Auntie X made it to her meetings in Springfield from the south side.
As we were shaking hands, the COO said, "She's feeling the call."
Uncle X gave me a look and said, "Well now."
"We'll see," I said. "I'm interested but ..."
"Well," he said. "My wife won't tell you this, but I'm not anybody's elected anything. With every election, the quality is going down. They're getting stupider and stupider. If you're worth it, and my niece doesn't back people who aren't worth it, then you should do it. You'll be needed."
On the train, my COO said. "You'll need 3 years to get a mortgage, a fundraising base and a network. You have a strong network already partly in place. And you need a target. Westside districts will be hard; northside might be doable; southside would be easier. My aunt's would be ideal."
"I don't want to move to the south side!"
"Delia Christina, you need to be serious. If you're going to do this, the DO THIS."
This was still on my mind when I got home, exhausted. If one day of basically nothing exhausted me, what would a whole job do to me? If one session made me disgusted, what would hundreds of them do? If I secretly thought elected official X was an asshat, what would prevent me from calling him that to his face? And if people like me (or you) don't step up, what then? What about my writing? What about the book that's been growing inside me? What about my relationship? And have I said I don't want a frakking mortgage!?
So that's what's on my mind: trying to plan the next three years to maybe be ready for a go in '14. Or not.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Take me to your Leader
Last summer I was in a conference room with two colleagues and our COO, a very smart and wise woman who had seen things, done things, been in campaigns, had managed people, teams and orgs – and had a mixture of savvy and thoughtfulness I wanted to emulate. It was at the height of the state budget crisis and we were all afraid of losing our jobs, feeling pressured to make sure our programs survived and the women we helped would continue to be helped. It was a summer of fear and frustration but also a time when we all stretched ourselves beyond what we thought were capable.
It was also when I learned what it took to lead an organization and how different it felt from the inside of the bubble than the outside.
I was sitting with the PR officer and the Associate Director of Communications and we were crafting both the internal and external communication strategies; on the table was the dicey problem of managing internal fear of mass layoffs and shut downs. Do we tell staff about possible furloughs, layoffs or wait until everything was settled and it was too late for staff to make plans for their families? I was pushing for more transparency, having learned through a corporate lens that if you trust your frontline with difficult news they can come through for you and the fear and panic will likely subside once they know what’s happening.
The PR officer was feeling frustrated at the perception people seemed to be stalling making decisions and our AD was arguing for adopting a really conservative, cautious line. So the COO walked in on our intense debate and after she listened for a bit she closed the door.
‘I’m not supposed to share these things but I think I should in order to share with you what’s happening at the senior management level. So you know what we’re struggling with. In a RIF over a certain size, there are state and federal rules that mandate how much notice you need to give your employees. If it’s up to and over 50%, it’s 60 days. If it’s about 25%, then 30. But we don’t know what contingency plans we’ll have to put in place, yet. We just don’t know.
But RIFs alone won’t save the agency, and we need to save the agency. It’s in our charter and bylaws, we’re mandated by our Board and there you are. So there are furloughs or pay cuts for those who survive the RIF. But how to structure furloughs? If we structure it badly, it impacts health benefits and at a time like this we all need our benefits; if we structure it badly, we could also expose the agency to risk, in terms of legal action. And we’re also trying to do the right thing and abide by the laws and statutes of the state. So we’re trying to find little bits of a puzzle at a time when we’re flying completely in the dark.
We also don’t want to create a panic. We can’t have half our staff quitting in fear when we still have work to do. So you see that we are dealing with all these details that could have some serious, lasting ramifications for our employees.’ She paused. ‘So, in our position, what would you do?’
We were silent. All the debating flew out the window. The differences of opinion flew out the window when faced with the heavy details and choices our bosses would have to make – choices that would materially impact a working family.
‘We are so fucked,’ I said. There was laughter. ‘You’re right. We can’t go public with all this. They’d freak. I’m freaking just listening to you.’
The COO smiled. ‘And this has been what’s happening at every senior manager meeting, every day. We’re all freaking. Just control the panic until we can figure out the least harmful way of dealing with this mess. And get us that budget back, Delia.’
(When she left the room, I’m sure that’s the moment our PR officer decided to revise her resume and go on the market.)
From the outside, it looked like our leaders were fumbling in the dark, deliberately not sharing information for bad purposes, or withholding the truth for some weird lack of trust (which was sometimes deserved); on the inside, the choices to be made were so weighty, the details and consequences so damaging, a workable solution couldn’t be arrived at, yet.
From the outside, they lacked leadership and direction; they weren’t fighting hard enough; they weren’t doing what they promised; they weren’t doing what we wanted them to do. From the inside, they knew damage would occur, but were still struggling with how to triage the damage.
What would you do? How would you lead?
Talking about leadership (which I do a lot) and actually leading – while taking in the entire contextual universe of that act – is hard. And it’s not about winning. ‘Winning’ and leading are sometimes in conflict. Did my agency win? Hard to say. We’re still around. But that RIF took place; we laid off about 30% of our headcount; we lost 10% of our multi-million dollar funding. There were pay reductions; there were service reductions. There was anger and resentment; we said goodbye to some good people. We lost a lot.
But we came through it because our leadership made really hard decisions that were not going to feel good for the rest of us – and their decisions were made with the intent of trying to mitigate the damage to the rest of us.
For the past several months, I’ve been reading all sorts of right and left analysis of what’s happening with the Obama administration. I keep reading posts and articles admonishing more ‘fight,’ more ‘kick ass,’ more ‘do something’ – which all imply winning, not necessarily leading.
And what they’ve been saying has reminded me of that conference room debate I had with my coworkers. Why isn’t more being done? Why aren’t they telling us? Why aren’t they fighting harder? Why are they not telling us the truth?
I don’t have answers to any of that. But I know questions like those come from a position of fear and desperation, emotional states that don’t lead to good decision making. And I also know this: until some of these sideline analysts and writers are ready to put on their big girl panties and sit in that big chair and make the decisions that will bring down damage in order to save the larger whole, then those folks need toshut the fuck up reevaluate what they really want in a leader.
It was also when I learned what it took to lead an organization and how different it felt from the inside of the bubble than the outside.
I was sitting with the PR officer and the Associate Director of Communications and we were crafting both the internal and external communication strategies; on the table was the dicey problem of managing internal fear of mass layoffs and shut downs. Do we tell staff about possible furloughs, layoffs or wait until everything was settled and it was too late for staff to make plans for their families? I was pushing for more transparency, having learned through a corporate lens that if you trust your frontline with difficult news they can come through for you and the fear and panic will likely subside once they know what’s happening.
The PR officer was feeling frustrated at the perception people seemed to be stalling making decisions and our AD was arguing for adopting a really conservative, cautious line. So the COO walked in on our intense debate and after she listened for a bit she closed the door.
‘I’m not supposed to share these things but I think I should in order to share with you what’s happening at the senior management level. So you know what we’re struggling with. In a RIF over a certain size, there are state and federal rules that mandate how much notice you need to give your employees. If it’s up to and over 50%, it’s 60 days. If it’s about 25%, then 30. But we don’t know what contingency plans we’ll have to put in place, yet. We just don’t know.
But RIFs alone won’t save the agency, and we need to save the agency. It’s in our charter and bylaws, we’re mandated by our Board and there you are. So there are furloughs or pay cuts for those who survive the RIF. But how to structure furloughs? If we structure it badly, it impacts health benefits and at a time like this we all need our benefits; if we structure it badly, we could also expose the agency to risk, in terms of legal action. And we’re also trying to do the right thing and abide by the laws and statutes of the state. So we’re trying to find little bits of a puzzle at a time when we’re flying completely in the dark.
We also don’t want to create a panic. We can’t have half our staff quitting in fear when we still have work to do. So you see that we are dealing with all these details that could have some serious, lasting ramifications for our employees.’ She paused. ‘So, in our position, what would you do?’
We were silent. All the debating flew out the window. The differences of opinion flew out the window when faced with the heavy details and choices our bosses would have to make – choices that would materially impact a working family.
‘We are so fucked,’ I said. There was laughter. ‘You’re right. We can’t go public with all this. They’d freak. I’m freaking just listening to you.’
The COO smiled. ‘And this has been what’s happening at every senior manager meeting, every day. We’re all freaking. Just control the panic until we can figure out the least harmful way of dealing with this mess. And get us that budget back, Delia.’
(When she left the room, I’m sure that’s the moment our PR officer decided to revise her resume and go on the market.)
From the outside, it looked like our leaders were fumbling in the dark, deliberately not sharing information for bad purposes, or withholding the truth for some weird lack of trust (which was sometimes deserved); on the inside, the choices to be made were so weighty, the details and consequences so damaging, a workable solution couldn’t be arrived at, yet.
From the outside, they lacked leadership and direction; they weren’t fighting hard enough; they weren’t doing what they promised; they weren’t doing what we wanted them to do. From the inside, they knew damage would occur, but were still struggling with how to triage the damage.
What would you do? How would you lead?
Talking about leadership (which I do a lot) and actually leading – while taking in the entire contextual universe of that act – is hard. And it’s not about winning. ‘Winning’ and leading are sometimes in conflict. Did my agency win? Hard to say. We’re still around. But that RIF took place; we laid off about 30% of our headcount; we lost 10% of our multi-million dollar funding. There were pay reductions; there were service reductions. There was anger and resentment; we said goodbye to some good people. We lost a lot.
But we came through it because our leadership made really hard decisions that were not going to feel good for the rest of us – and their decisions were made with the intent of trying to mitigate the damage to the rest of us.
For the past several months, I’ve been reading all sorts of right and left analysis of what’s happening with the Obama administration. I keep reading posts and articles admonishing more ‘fight,’ more ‘kick ass,’ more ‘do something’ – which all imply winning, not necessarily leading.
And what they’ve been saying has reminded me of that conference room debate I had with my coworkers. Why isn’t more being done? Why aren’t they telling us? Why aren’t they fighting harder? Why are they not telling us the truth?
I don’t have answers to any of that. But I know questions like those come from a position of fear and desperation, emotional states that don’t lead to good decision making. And I also know this: until some of these sideline analysts and writers are ready to put on their big girl panties and sit in that big chair and make the decisions that will bring down damage in order to save the larger whole, then those folks need to
Friday, February 12, 2010
professional tip #1: put on your big girl panties
A couple of days ago, emails were colliding in my inbox and it became too much. I busted into BossLady's office and had a mini-breakdown. It just suddenly dawned on me that there was a LOT riding on my success or failure. Money, funding, staff, jobs, livelihoods. My chest felt like it was going to burst. And I felt like there was a big target painted on my back.
"I just wanna know that I'm not on the hook for the whole strategy leading this place," I said. "I mean, I'm not..I can't...I'm not an executive! I'm just pulling shit out of my ass!'
BossLady understood. 'So what are you saying? You're overwhelmed?'
Our COO stopped in. 'What's going on?'
I said, "I'm freaking out. I feel there's a big target on my back and there are a lot of expectations and I can't handle it. This is totally above my pay grade. LITERALLY."
But if I thought there was sympathy from my awesome COO, there was none.
With a voice like a blunt instrument, she said, 'Sorry. We *are* relying on you to provide the strategy. This is what you do and what we need from you.'
'Jesus. I'm about to lose my shit,' I said. 'I am so not comfortable with that. I'm not used to that. I'm used to giving suggestions, advice, throwing in some 'have you thought ofs' - not 'this is the whole freaking plan and it came out of my head'!'
You know what's in my head? Most of the time, bravado and useless crap! But apparently, that's my job - to marshall my natural talent for bravado and academic bullshit in order to get what we need to survive. It was a really heavy moment. My job wasn't a game. There was no room for shrugging and saying 'oh well, maybe next time.' There was weight to it. And it was hanging around my neck and I was scared.
It's terrifying, sometimes, to see yourself the way others see you. (And this, one week after bullshitting my way through letter of recommendation! The irony, you know?)
My two bosses were sympathetic but not really feeling me more than that.
The upshot: put on your big girl panties, DeliaChristina.
Thursday, February 11, 2010
asshat of the day: who else?
Let this be a lesson, kids: when you mix white privilege, male privilege, boredom, celebrity, and a hugely over-indulged ego you grow up to be John Mayer. You've been warned.
Round up of responses to the 'very very' Mayer:
John Mayer's "Very" Wide-Open Window Into U.S. Race Relations - Psychology Today (this one was more empathic than others.)
John Mayer: A black woman responds - Salon
When Racefail Meets Playboy: The John Mayer Interview - Racialicious
Should We Give Him a Pass on the N-word? - BlogHer
John Mayer and his white supremacist man-bits - Feministe
Mayer Reveals His Authentically Racist Self - Whose Shoes Are These Anyway?
Was he high? Was he serious? Who cares? If I keep getting my 'black card' revoked for my lack of pop culture knowledge I want his freaking 'hood pass' permanently suspended!
Parts of his interview (esp. the part about having a white supremecist cock) reminded me of that opening hook up montage in The Wedding Crashers - our two heroes will sleep with *anyone* - just not black women. I honestly don't care who people sleep with - but I always look aslant at folks who cross out whole ethnic groups and don't interrogate it. I include myself in this number; I will admit there are whole countries of men I am not interested in meeting. Maybe I should give Mayer some slack for being so horrendously honest about his racial preferences.
Whatever. Any dude who needs to look at 300 images of porn just to get going in the morning is an asshat. Frak his honesty.
Round up of responses to the 'very very' Mayer:
John Mayer's "Very" Wide-Open Window Into U.S. Race Relations - Psychology Today (this one was more empathic than others.)
John Mayer: A black woman responds - Salon
When Racefail Meets Playboy: The John Mayer Interview - Racialicious
Should We Give Him a Pass on the N-word? - BlogHer
John Mayer and his white supremacist man-bits - Feministe
Mayer Reveals His Authentically Racist Self - Whose Shoes Are These Anyway?
Was he high? Was he serious? Who cares? If I keep getting my 'black card' revoked for my lack of pop culture knowledge I want his freaking 'hood pass' permanently suspended!
Parts of his interview (esp. the part about having a white supremecist cock) reminded me of that opening hook up montage in The Wedding Crashers - our two heroes will sleep with *anyone* - just not black women. I honestly don't care who people sleep with - but I always look aslant at folks who cross out whole ethnic groups and don't interrogate it. I include myself in this number; I will admit there are whole countries of men I am not interested in meeting. Maybe I should give Mayer some slack for being so horrendously honest about his racial preferences.
Whatever. Any dude who needs to look at 300 images of porn just to get going in the morning is an asshat. Frak his honesty.
Tuesday, February 09, 2010
this is MY country
Rachel Maddow unloads a bunch of righteous fury on Tom Tancredo, the Teaparty and their dangerous, seditious, white supremacist nostalgia.
I connect this moment to Black History Month because, personally, I'm tired of February being the month we use to sing gospel songs (badly and too slowly), revisit big moments Black Folks Did Something That Shamed White Folks Into Thinking We Were People, or to complain about how janky and/or 'post' Black History Month we are now.
For months, it should have been clear that the narrative running beneath anything the Teaparty does or says has been about citizenship; crazy and fringe as they are, the Birthers were onto something. Oh, the thing wasn't Obama's actual birth certificate but the question it prompted: Who is allowed to be American in this contemporary America?
The ideologically correct answer is any of us and their rejection of our national ideal lies at the dark heart of this seditious movement. (And, yeah, I'll call it that because that's exactlly what it is. Just the same way I'll also characterize it as white supremacist.)
The nostalgia they indulge in speaks to a time when national identity and citizenship was very narrowly defined by race, and every institution of this country supported that narrow definition. Without things like Black History Month (and the people who actually know it), without people like Howard Zinn (rest in peace, truth teller), a TeaPartier's nostalgic wish to 'take back' their country floats in our public discourse without context or challenge. Black History Month should exist to counter their narrative, to make their narrative a lie.
Black History Month is understood to be the culmination of a civil rights fight that ended a long time ago. But it's evidently not over - not as long as there is a burgeoning movement in this country to question my citizenship, my rights to equal protection, my rights to an American history . As a country, we are young in our plurality and we forget that the world the TeaPartiers lost (and dream of ) could easily return - if we let their seditious wishful thinking take hold.
Still wanna celebrate Black History Month? Let's make a deal. I'll ignore all the bad Negro spirituals being sung in mainline churches in Sundays this month if y'all read up on things like vote suppression, red lining, the source of racial wealth disparity and our long history of intstitutional racism - and tell these Teaparty sons of sedition to go frak themselves.
I connect this moment to Black History Month because, personally, I'm tired of February being the month we use to sing gospel songs (badly and too slowly), revisit big moments Black Folks Did Something That Shamed White Folks Into Thinking We Were People, or to complain about how janky and/or 'post' Black History Month we are now.
For months, it should have been clear that the narrative running beneath anything the Teaparty does or says has been about citizenship; crazy and fringe as they are, the Birthers were onto something. Oh, the thing wasn't Obama's actual birth certificate but the question it prompted: Who is allowed to be American in this contemporary America?
The ideologically correct answer is any of us and their rejection of our national ideal lies at the dark heart of this seditious movement. (And, yeah, I'll call it that because that's exactlly what it is. Just the same way I'll also characterize it as white supremacist.)
The nostalgia they indulge in speaks to a time when national identity and citizenship was very narrowly defined by race, and every institution of this country supported that narrow definition. Without things like Black History Month (and the people who actually know it), without people like Howard Zinn (rest in peace, truth teller), a TeaPartier's nostalgic wish to 'take back' their country floats in our public discourse without context or challenge. Black History Month should exist to counter their narrative, to make their narrative a lie.
Black History Month is understood to be the culmination of a civil rights fight that ended a long time ago. But it's evidently not over - not as long as there is a burgeoning movement in this country to question my citizenship, my rights to equal protection, my rights to an American history . As a country, we are young in our plurality and we forget that the world the TeaPartiers lost (and dream of ) could easily return - if we let their seditious wishful thinking take hold.
Still wanna celebrate Black History Month? Let's make a deal. I'll ignore all the bad Negro spirituals being sung in mainline churches in Sundays this month if y'all read up on things like vote suppression, red lining, the source of racial wealth disparity and our long history of intstitutional racism - and tell these Teaparty sons of sedition to go frak themselves.
...and more on the Idaho 10 (love the name)
Americans Jailed in Haiti Plead for Help From U.S. - NYTimes.com
Sigh.
Reading the comments, I'd say their hold on American sympathy is dwindling.
Sigh.
Reading the comments, I'd say their hold on American sympathy is dwindling.
sheeple
The story about the 10 Baptists in Haiti just gets sadder and more bizarre:
Idahoans in Haiti agreed to pay $7,000 a month to house children in church center, newspaper says News Updates Idaho Statesman
They never had lodging arranged; they didn't have the proper paperwork; they had no clear plan; they had no experience running a facility for children; they were either going to give these children up for adoption OR they were going to be with them forever - in any case, frak their families.
I don't want these sad people thrown in jail; you've recovered the children (who are in a 'real' orphanage) so why not expel them from Haiti and bar them from ever returning?
And please - good hearted Christian ladies! Stop - adopt some critical thinking skills before rushing into the unknown.
Idahoans in Haiti agreed to pay $7,000 a month to house children in church center, newspaper says News Updates Idaho Statesman
They never had lodging arranged; they didn't have the proper paperwork; they had no clear plan; they had no experience running a facility for children; they were either going to give these children up for adoption OR they were going to be with them forever - in any case, frak their families.
I don't want these sad people thrown in jail; you've recovered the children (who are in a 'real' orphanage) so why not expel them from Haiti and bar them from ever returning?
And please - good hearted Christian ladies! Stop - adopt some critical thinking skills before rushing into the unknown.
Friday, February 05, 2010
professional tip #15: write your own letter of rec
I just wrote the most outrageous ode to my own awesomeness:
"With her help we have become a model of advocacy in the region and we’re proud of the generous way she shares her knowledge with our sister associations to build capacity. We now enjoy a reputation for being ahead of issues, for being a ‘first-responder’ on issues critical to victims of assault and working poor families. It’s difficult to ascribe direct causality but there is no doubt we could not have achieved this without her combination of guts, smarts and resourcefulness."
There's more but I'll stop there.
I'm applying for a competitive leadership bootcamp in DC for May and part of the application is two letters of recommendation. Who'd I pick to recommend me? My CEO and COO (I think having leadership behind you matters). But they're busy women so I wrote the letter for them, sent it to them, said they could edit it as they saw fit - and I'd do the rest. One down, one to go.
Writing it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be.
Have you written a letter of your own awesomeness?
On my path to get to The Next Step I'm becoming a big believer in being your own biggest fan - especially if you're a woman. Remember that article folks were talking about a month or so ago, about what women needed to do to be more successful - and the upshot was 'be more like a dude'? Well, no. I wouldn't know how to be a 'dude' if I tried - but I like being one of the smartest people in the room (and I'm not afraid of being that person in the room who also says 'I don't get it.') I like knowing what I'm capable of and doing it; I like knowing that there are things I can do better than other people.
Why be ashamed of it? Why be apologetic for it?
(I'm not saying be a dick. Just be...who the hell you are. Unless you really are a dick. I can't help you with that.)
To me, not apologizing for being you (constructive warts and all) is being your own biggest fan. And being forced to write it all down makes you define who you are for yourself. That's why I don't understand people who ask for recommendations and then leave it up to others to say something nice about them. You're really going to trust other people with your reputation and image? Really?? Risky.
Anyway, it felt good writing this letter. It reminded me of why I do the work I do and why I've stayed where I am. It returned to me some of my purpose. And when my CEO signed off on it with a fluorish without changing one word, I squee'd a little inside.
Now if I could just conquer my fear of the networking event...
"With her help we have become a model of advocacy in the region and we’re proud of the generous way she shares her knowledge with our sister associations to build capacity. We now enjoy a reputation for being ahead of issues, for being a ‘first-responder’ on issues critical to victims of assault and working poor families. It’s difficult to ascribe direct causality but there is no doubt we could not have achieved this without her combination of guts, smarts and resourcefulness."
There's more but I'll stop there.
I'm applying for a competitive leadership bootcamp in DC for May and part of the application is two letters of recommendation. Who'd I pick to recommend me? My CEO and COO (I think having leadership behind you matters). But they're busy women so I wrote the letter for them, sent it to them, said they could edit it as they saw fit - and I'd do the rest. One down, one to go.
Writing it wasn't as hard as I thought it would be.
Have you written a letter of your own awesomeness?
On my path to get to The Next Step I'm becoming a big believer in being your own biggest fan - especially if you're a woman. Remember that article folks were talking about a month or so ago, about what women needed to do to be more successful - and the upshot was 'be more like a dude'? Well, no. I wouldn't know how to be a 'dude' if I tried - but I like being one of the smartest people in the room (and I'm not afraid of being that person in the room who also says 'I don't get it.') I like knowing what I'm capable of and doing it; I like knowing that there are things I can do better than other people.
Why be ashamed of it? Why be apologetic for it?
(I'm not saying be a dick. Just be...who the hell you are. Unless you really are a dick. I can't help you with that.)
To me, not apologizing for being you (constructive warts and all) is being your own biggest fan. And being forced to write it all down makes you define who you are for yourself. That's why I don't understand people who ask for recommendations and then leave it up to others to say something nice about them. You're really going to trust other people with your reputation and image? Really?? Risky.
Anyway, it felt good writing this letter. It reminded me of why I do the work I do and why I've stayed where I am. It returned to me some of my purpose. And when my CEO signed off on it with a fluorish without changing one word, I squee'd a little inside.
Now if I could just conquer my fear of the networking event...
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