Reflections Of A Weary Traveler (aka Unloading A Bit)

Catching a ride, passenger riding backwards on a motorcycle in downtown Saigon, photo © 2008 by ybonesy. All rights reserved.



It’s Saturday morning, and like many locals I’m heading out for the weekend. Some of them are taking Monday off; Tuesday’s a national holiday, and there’s a whiff of excitement in the air. They say the beaches will be full.

I’m going for people and culture. I’ll be taking a boat cruise to the Mekong Delta, bringing along little more than my camera, mosquito spray, and clothes to spend the night. (A much lighter load than the woman in the picture above.)

So much swirling through my head over here on this side of the world. Yesterday I frantically tried watching Barack Obama’s speech from work, but the video streaming was more like video constipation. Instead, I called home every 15 minutes to get Jim’s impressions. He and the girls watched the whole thing; Em’s fourth-grade teacher assigned it as homework.

I’m at that point in this trip where I long for my home. All of it. Last night a work colleague invited me to dinner at his home with his family. He has four daughters, ages 17, 15, nine, and six. They’re beautiful, as is his wife. It was Shabbat, and so the dinner was extra special, with singing and challah, candles and wine. By the end of the evening I wanted to take the nine-year-old, who stayed by my side most of the night telling me everything there was to know about everything, and just squeeze her. When I hugged her good-bye I told her that I missed my girls.

This is a short post. Not focused, more stream of thought. I feel more than ever that we must elect Obama. Every person I talk to, from every nationality—they hate the U.S. They hate W. So much damage has been done to our reputation, our credibility, our influence.

We are one world now. We’re like those contraptions where you pull the ball on the pendulum and it hits a whole bunch of other balls, causing the one on the other end to jump out. We are the main ball, reverberating on every other one.

After I finish this post, I’ll call home. I’ll talk to the girls once for the weekend until Sunday night, their Sunday morning. It will be hard to not have at least twice-daily conversations with them. I call them every day when I get up to wish them Good-Night, then again in my evening to wish them Good-Morning.

I want them to come to Vietnam with me some time in the coming year. I want them to be able to see the world when they are young, when their minds are open and they can understand how each individual is connected to the whole.

Off to the Mekong Delta. Should be fascinating.

Read Full Post »

Do You Do Politics?

Viva Kennedy, detail of old political button given to me by my father, photo © 2008 by ybonesy. All rights reserved.



Something happens to me every four years, right about now. I start to care about the presidential elections.

I start to get passionate and close in on who I want to win my party’s nomination. I watch closely what the candidates say. I check in on what analysts say and what polls say. I watch the debates then read the articles following the debates. I tune in to happenings in Iowa, New Hampshire, and South Dakota.

I pray.


         


I come from a political family. My parents are both Democrats, with deep roots to the leaders and programs that shaped the party. Here, an excerpt my father wrote about his mother captures the way a particular time and circumstance can create loyalty toward a party:

She was a strong Democrat and loved to get involved in politics. Her greatest political triumph came in 1932 when Franklin Roosevelt won the election over President Hoover. She had supported Roosevelt and had actively campaigned for him…

…Sometime around 1936 (or maybe late 1935), Magdalena got a break in life that lessened her burden for the first time. The federal government under President Roosevelt started a work project for the economically disadvantaged women and she was eligible to participate. This project, known informally as “la costura” or the sewing, was similar to the WPA except that it was for women alone caring for a family. Magdalena was selected to head the project for our community and we were very proud of her.

So all of a sudden the front room in our house, or what we called our living room, was transformed into a mini-factory full of sewing machines and bolts of cloth all around. The women had to furnish their own sewing machines (a necessary appliance that every household had) which were kept at our house. The women reported to work for eight hours a day on weekdays and produced childrens’ clothing, blankets and other items urgently needed which were then shipped out for distribution to the needy.

Following family tradition, I become an activist during political campaigns. In 2004, I worked in my precinct, registering voters and getting out the vote. But writing about politics — especially when yours is not a political blog — is tricky.

I write about my kids, animals, Jim, the weather, holidays, quirks, writing. I don’t write with an aim to convince anyone to come around to my way of thinking. And I don’t write to debate the goodness or not of my views.

Yet, so goes politics.

One time in early November for my dad’s birthday party, which my Republican sister held at her house, her Republican husband went on and on about how much he loved Rush Limbaugh. My dad boycotted Thanksgiving at that same sister’s house that year.

We have a policy to not talk politics at our family gatherings. We’re all passionate. Things end badly when we disagree.

So, it is with some trepidation that I now proclaim, being as how I’m obsessed with interested in politics these days, that I plan to write every now and then about the national elections. I might make fun of Mitt Romney’s hair (wouldn’t he be perfect for a Grecian Formula commercial?) or the bags under the eyes of that old Republican dude. (No, not McCain. The other old dude.)

I wouldn’t be surprised, either, if I start seeing on other writing-slash-personal blogs more posts about the elections. In fact, if you’re so inclined, you should write about politics, too. That way I know I won’t be the only one doing it.

Here. To get you started, write for 15 minutes on this prompt: “When we talk politics in my family, this is what happens.”

Good luck. And may the best candidate win.

Oh, and in case you’re wondering…Barack rocks my socks. My parents are for Hillary, and it dawned on me yesterday that at 82, Mom won’t have many other chances to see a woman president. I could live with Hillary, too. Or Edwards. I like all three. And Richardson (oh fair New Mexico) as the veep. I‘d be am a happy Democrat! 



           
         
        
        


P.S., Dad’s a button collector. I have a ton of ’em. More to come…

Read Full Post »

Duck & Cover

              -Duck & Cover, posted on YouTube by maesterjay, May 16th, 2006

In a quest for memoir details and memories, I spent the afternoon driving through Southern childhood neighborhoods with my mother and step-father. When we had finished walking through tall blooming magnolias in Georgia’s historic Magnolia Cemetery, we drove by my grandfather’s ranch home from the 1950’s. I stepped out of the car and stood under ancient pecans to photograph the house and grounds.

That’s when I remembered that my grandfather had built a bomb shelter in his 50’s backyard, smack dab between the house and the pool, a space that would later be relegated to the status of forgotten relic. Every once in a while, we’d open the heavy lid and descend the metal steps to view dusty bunk beds with hospital corners, out of date first-aid kits, and neatly stacked canned goods.

When I saw the comment in I’d Rather Be Fishing (#26), “In case of nuclear attack, your children will not be released from school,”  it reminded me of the bomb shelter. Then I flashed to the Duck and Cover video posted on YouTube about a year ago by maesterjay (because that’s the way my mind works).

It’s all summed up nicely in the last comment (#28) on  I’d Rather Be Fishing:

“We told our kids, that in case of nuclear attack, they were free to break ALL the rules…It was an example of breeding a culture of fear and we are still doing that with Homeland Security, orange alert, etc, etc.”

Yes, we’re still breeding a culture of fear.

For me, this all fits together with the recent post Wishing You A Peaceful Heart – An Open Letter To Cindy Sheehan. It stands to reason – because everything is connected.

The strangely dynamic site on Cold War Culture, Conelrad, has links to Cold War movies, atomic secrets, and atomic platters. We live in a crazy world. When you add two and two together, we’ve always lived in a crazy world. There is war and there is peace. And in-between stands Bert the Turtle.

Saturday, June 2nd, 2007

Read Full Post »

Wishing You A Peaceful Heart – An Open Letter To Cindy Sheehan

From Beth Howard

May 30, 2007 

Dear Cindy,

        Yesterday, I read in your on-line diary that you are leaving Crawford, Texas and going home to California. You wrote, “This is my resignation letter as the ‘face’ of the American anti-war movement.” There is so much energy in politics and government that is not peaceful. Much of our democratic process seems to be fueled by the energy of war, but we do not call it that. We call it the “two-party system” and sometimes, “competition.”

        Later in your diary, you wrote, “I am going home and be a mother to my surviving children and try to regain some of what I have lost.” Maybe now, you will have time to focus on cultivating the seeds of peace planted so firmly in your own tender heart. I hope that you will grow an oasis of peace within your family and community.

        I am deeply sorry for the death of your son, Casey, in Iraq. I cannot imagine your pain and deep sadness. Please, accept my condolences and also my deep sadness that insults were added to injury in your effort to honor your son’s life by working for peace. One day, I am terrified that I may follow in your footsteps, with the loss of one of my own sons in this war. It is the subject of all my worst daydreams and nightmares.

        My 21-year-old son, Peter, is a soldier in Iraq. Three weeks ago, the truck he was riding in was blown-up by a roadside bomb. Peter, the gunner, was thrown off the vehicle, when the five-ton truck was flipped on its side. He has a piece of shrapnel in his thigh, some bruises and abrasions, but otherwise, is okay. He was awarded a Purple Heart and after two weeks off, to recover from his injuries, he returned to his regular duty. Last week, he completed another mission, taking turns serving as the gunner and driver in the 113 degree heat. Peter’s tour of duty in Iraq was extended three months with the rest of the Army. I can hardly bear it, but how can I possibly complain, when so many sons, like yours, have died? As the mother of a living soldier, I am one of the “lucky” ones.

        This was a difficult Memorial Day, with the possibility of violent death before my eyes and too close for any comfort. I wore a small pin with two blue stars, signifying that I have two sons in military service. Peter’s twin brother, Andrew, is a Marine Security Guard, serving in Saudi Arabia.

        When my sons joined the military, I honored their choice to stand for the courage of their convictions. Their father and I had taught them for years to do just that. Their strength was an inspiration to me and I seized the opportunity of their enlistment to act and work for peace. I started with myself, my family and my community. In spite of the daily horrors of war, I can still find peace in those places and I continue to grow it from that fertile soil. I prefer to think of peace as one of those tenacious perennial plants, growing in the garden of my life. Year-to-year, it gradually spreads to take over everything. I have a very good, real-life example of this plant in the garden of my yard, which serves as a valuable reminder to me that peace, too, is hardy and persistent.

        Peace persists, even in Iraq. When my son, Peter, was home on leave in April, he showed us a slideshow of pictures from Iraq on this laptop. He had many pictures of children, running beside their convoy. He said they ask for food and water. Sometimes, he tosses them his sandwich.

        Last week, during an Instant Message conversation with Peter, I asked if I could send some granola bars for him to toss to the children. He replied, “If I remember, I grab muffins before the mission, because I can chuck a muffin pretty far.” I asked if I could send some muffins and he replied, “Mom, there is no short supply of muffins in Iraq.”

        We will seldom, if ever, read such stories in the press, so I hang on to this one, to remind myself that small acts of kindness are happening every day in Iraq. These acts are tiny seeds of peace being sown and I hope that they will grow, even in the intense heat of summer and of war.

        So now, at home in Cheyenne, Wyoming, I think of ways that I might “chuck a muffin” for peace. On Sunday night, I slept at my Unitarian Universalist Church with a homeless mother and daughter. The mother was exhausted after working two part-time jobs as a motel maid. I played basketball with the energetic eight-year-old girl and shared a few simple yoga stretches with them before bed. In this small way, I shared peace with one family in my town. Now that you are home, I hope that there will be many opportunities for you to cultivate peace in your own backyard.

        Years ago, unknowingly, you and I collaborated in the Mindfulness Bell, “A Journal of the Art of Mindful Living in the Tradition of Thich Nhat Hanh,” (Issue 41 Winter 2005-2006). I wrote an article titled, “Peace Is Every Step” on the LA Peace Walk and the International Day of Mindfulness and Peace. Your article was, “I Have Arrived, I Am Home,” on walking with Thich Nhat Hanh (Thay) in MacArthur Park on that day. Our articles appeared side-by-side.

        In that issue, Thay said, “There is much in the peace movement that is not peaceful.” You have learned this first-hand. Someone once asked Thay what could be done to bring peace to the situation in Iraq. He responded by saying that there are many wrong perceptions on both sides. We must begin, he said, by looking deeply at our own practice. To have peace in the world, we must first have peace within ourselves.

        Thich Nhat Hanh will be teaching across the U.S. again this year. There will be another Peace Walk in MacArthur Park on September 29^th. His tour schedule is at: www.greenmountaincenter.org. If you see him, I know that Thay will chuck you a muffin. He bakes them daily in his peaceful heart and gives them all away.

Wishing you a peaceful heart,

Beth Howard

Going Back to Iraq, Photograph by Beth Howard, “I took the photo
because I knew it was how a lot of people saw Peter every day,”
© 2007, all rights reserved

About writing, Beth says: My regular writing practice includes writing letters and postcards. I got the idea from reading, Home Before Dark, Susan Cheever’s book about the life of her father, author John Cheever, who wrote 30–40 letters a week in addition to short stories for The New Yorker magazine. My volume of letter writing is considerably more modest. 

My friends at this site first suggested that I might write a letter for red Ravine…but, a letter to whom, I wondered? I was committed to the topic of “war & peace” and when I read Cindy Sheehan’s letter of resignation on-line, I knew I would write to her. The best gift of a letter writing practice is that you sometimes get a letter back.

Read Full Post »

Chalice or Blade?

I saw Riane Eisler at Amazon Bookstore last night. She wrote The Chalice and the Blade in 1987. As I commented in Saints or Sinners, she has a new book out, The New Wealth of Nations. It took her 10 years to write it. It took her 10 years to write The Chalice and the Blade.

Talk about process.

Eisler is an Austrian born Nazi survivor who has dedicated her life to meaningful work designed to evoke world change. She’s written books about politics, sex, partnerships, and now, money. She is animated and funny. She has a serious message.

When I left, I wondered if I was doing enough. I have a feeling that’s exactly what she wants me to wonder.

I sat next to Liz on the green couch a few feet from Riane, the same spot I sat to see Jean Shinoda Bolen a few weeks ago. I am still digesting Riane’s talk. I haven’t read her new book yet. It’s hot off the presses. She wrote the Intro in January 2007. We were her first book signing. She drove to Amazon straight off the plane at MSP.

Wordraw responded in his New Saturday post to a comment I made from Eisler that there is a need for women to penetrate high places, not only in this country, but the world. Places where important decisions are made about the economy and war and wages and healthcare.

It isn’t because women have all the answers. Or are better at doing the job. It is to role model a connecting, relational archetype. So that people in power (who for every great effort we have made over the last 50 years are still mostly men) can learn new ways of relating.

And those who are not, can become empowered.

“You can’t just throw money at women and children in 3^rd world cultures and expect change,” she said. “The best thing you can do is help them organize politically. They have to infiltrate a system that wants to keep them submissive. Teach them to be empowered.”

Eisler’s categories may seem general. They are broad because she studies systems. She is looking at the economic model from a broader perspective which includes gender. I’m thinking she gets into details in her book which is widely supported by many influential men, as well as women. But I’ll have to read it to tell you more.

One thing I know for sure – the old warrior models we are operating under are not working. As Wordraw said in New Saturday, “there are wars, skirmishes and a feudal mentality dominates politics. There is a lot of hunger, many types, lack of milk and lack of compassion.”

There were pointed questions in the basement at Amazon after her talk. One woman haughtily asked, “Why can’t the U.S. be more like Europe, more progressive in its thinking?”

“What do you mean?” Riane said. “Right now there is more anti-Semitism in Europe than anywhere else I’ve seen. Don’t forget, Hitler came out of Europe.”

Another woman asked her what she thought was holding this country back. She paused for a moment. Then she said the fundamentalist religious thread running through the heart of this country is where the greatest resistance is rooted. Fundamentalism in any religion is about power. With dominance, as opposed to partnerships, you are either with them or you’re a threat. It’s black and white.

But the world is full of gray. And if relational global models are allowed to penetrate the dominate system in great enough numbers, then the dominant will feel less threatened. They can let their guard down. And the balance of power can start to be restored.

Eisler sees women, and men who are willing to embrace the feminine in themselves, as the great equalizers. For all of us. But mostly, for the children of the next generation.

I can’t speak for Eisler. And I wouldn’t want to. All of this is my interpretation after an hour of listening and filtering her words through my own experiences and brain. But I felt a need to write about it. I am being moved in a direction of action. I don’t know yet what that will be.

At the end of her talk, there was tension in a room filled primarily with middle-aged women (there was only one man) who leaned toward the left. Many of us had fought hard in our early 20’s for equal rights.

I started to wonder, if there is this much dissension among grassroots women on the ground where her message is most likely to take seed, what hope is there for the rest of the world?

She wasn’t fazed. She said we need to keep talking. She sees hope for this country. There are many good things that spring from our rugged individualism. She has not given up.

Sunday, March 25^th, 2007

Read Full Post »

November 22nd, 1963 – Just the Facts, M’am

On the early afternoon of November 22nd, 1963, I was sitting in 3rd grade at a wooden desk drawing hearts with a BIC pen. It was 2:13 on Friday. I couldn’t wait for the weekend. My 3rd grade teacher, Miss Wells, wore pleated skirts that flowed behind her and she was tall, with slender limbs, but she had a kind, round face.

I was 9 years old. I didn’t know what I was about to find out – at 1pm CST, 2 o’clock South Carolina time, President John F. Kennedy had been pronounced dead at Parkland Memorial Hospital in Dallas, Texas. He’d been shot, half hour earlier, while I was coming in from recess.

But let’s backtrack a little.

By 1 o’clock EST, I had finished lunch served on gray plastic trays by hair-netted, uniformed women: Tater Tots, Velveeta mac and cheese, a pint of whole Borden’s milk (sporting a daisy-ringed, smiling, Elsie the Cow), and all American apple crisp with brown sugar, oats, apples, cinnamon, nutmeg, flour, water, salt, and lemon to taste.

At 1:30, the moment Kennedy was shot, I was being called in from recess. When the bell rang, I stopped romping on the wooden planked teeter-totters, playing hopscotch in the dirt, and jumping through the wiry, jute ropes and tall metal swings of the 60’s. I walked toward the brick school building and flirted with freckle-faced Billy while we were standing in wobbly 3rd grade lines waiting for Mrs. Payne.

Mrs. Payne was on playground duty, just about to pull up her lanyard to blow her trademark silver whistle so we could walk single file back to the classroom. I loved Billy because he could rabbit wiggle his nostrils like me, a recessive gene trait we shared. The very act of flaring our nose holes, simultaneously, on command, endeared him to me.

By 2:00, when Kennedy was pronounced dead, Mrs. Wells was preparing to teach the afternoon lesson, South Carolina history. South Carolina, the Palmetto State, dressed in dark blue silk, a white crescent moon and silhouetted palm, was one of the 13 Original Colonies. Can you name the others? A 5th grader probably could. And in 3rd grade, I knew the following about South Carolina:

State Capitol: Columbia
State Bird: the Carolina Wren
State Beverage: Sweet Iced Tea
State Snack: Boiled Peanuts (hmmmm)
State Fruit: the Peach
State Motto: “While I breathe, I hope”

 

Around 2:15, out of a worn brown speaker cover high on the wall, dotted with symmetrically punched holes, the principal’s voice floated, disembodied, out of the public address system (remember the tinny, boxy sound of the PA?) I can’t remember the principal’s name. Just that she was stern, with an apple shaped, peasant stock body like me, curly short hair, and hard-soled pumps that clacked along the waxed linoleum when she snapped us to attention.

But this afternoon, she wasn’t snapping. In a quiet voice, the quietest I’d ever heard, she slowly announced, “Can I have your attention. I’ve got some sad news. President John F. Kennedy was shot today at 12:30 CST. He died at 1pm from gunshot wounds. Let’s bow our heads in a moment of silence.”

We sat there in our seats, stunned, looking up at lanky Clara Wells for direction. Miss Wells stared up at the speaker, blankly, but only for a few seconds. Then she quickly recovered and led us through the moment of silence. I don’t remember what, if anything, she said. I only remember the sinking feeling and the sadness that swept over me like a shroud.

Later that night, on the black and white Zenith, my parents and I, along with 189 million other Americans, relived the day: Walter Cronkite’s low jowls, Jackie’s pink pill box hat and Chanel suit, the raised right hand of Lyndon Johnson’s “do you solemnly swear.” It played like a dream sequence. My young mind could not comprehend the full impact. But I knew something big had changed.

 

When I went back to the South in 1999, Belvedere Elementary stood in the same place, along the scrub pines and dirty salt and pepper playground, across from the Methodist church. The Baptist church that my best friend, Susan, attended every Sunday was still on the opposite corner of the street. The school wasn’t open that day. I peeked in the windows but couldn’t see much. I took some photographs.

The place seemed smaller than I remembered it. But the memories, huge. I did a lot of growing up in that place.

A few weeks ago when I was doing Internet research for a presentation, I ran across Bryan Woolley’s account, The Day Kennedy Died, from a 1983 article he wrote for the Dallas Times Herald. The story is based solely on the facts. In this case, the facts are enough. The facts are powerful.

That day in 1963, this country had the breath knocked out of it. Something died: our collective sense of well-being and hope. Back then, I was the next generation. And the seeds of fear took root in my 9 year old heart.

But while I breathe, I hope.

Wednesday, November 22nd, 2006

———————–

Here’s Bryan’s story. Just the facts, M’am. Just the facts.

———————–

Volume : SIRS 1991 History, Article 02                               
Subject: Keyword(s) : KENNEDY and ASSASSINATION
Title  : The Day John Kennedy Died                                            
Author : Bryan Woolley                                                        
Source : Dallas Times Herald (Dallas, Texas)                                  
Publication Date : Nov. 20, 1983      
Page Number(s) : Sec. Sec. 2-3 

Read Full Post »