Cheerful Stuff Ahead!

Dang. I just looked back on all the stuff I have written so far...for a Muppet, I am pretty depressing. I'm not, really. I just have a very cloudy head this week. I promise I will write lighter stuff soon.

Pinky promise.

Heavy Heart, Heavy Mind

As a teacher of young people, I am acutely aware of the trials of being a teenager. You gotta look good, act fun and popular, and have lots of friends. Stuff like that is still important today, but in a different life. I scarcely remember what it used to be like, and usually I cannot recall the importance of those crucial elements of everyday teenager-ness. The one exception to that lack of recollection is body image.

I’m 33 years old, and I’m fat.

When I say, “fat”, I mean overweight. “Fat” is just one of those humorless and tasteless attempts to lighten the topic. That way people can’t think or say it first. These attempts make people uncomfortable. I know this because when others use it, I’m uncomfortable.

I had to go shopping yesterday for new pants, because I can’t fit into my current ones. I bought size 14, which was an admittance to my current physical state. I looked for inexpensive “slimming” clothes, and was reminded that I’ve never looked for that reason before.

I’ve never in my short life been this heavy. I used to be a dancer – my metabolism was high all through college, and I could eat and do whatever I wanted. I was a size 4 or 6. I just can’t shake that mentality; every day I think I should exercise, but I don’t. Health is certainly a consideration – I weigh 25 lbs over the maximum “average” for a woman my age and height. I’m tired, sometimes unmotivated with life, and deal with both depression and anxiety. My school has a fitness room that I can use for free. There is NO REASON AT ALL for me not to exercise. I just don’t.

My husband and I have a part-time job as Bed and Breakfast innsitters; when the innkeepers are away for a week or a weekend, we go and run the Inn in their absence. We like doing it, and because we love cooking and food, it’s practically a wash for both sides of the deal. It’s good and fun money. I was raised on comfort food, and have consistent cravings for my mom and grandma’s food. I’m a chicken/roast beef, mashed potatoes/stuffing and Minnesota casserole (hot dish, in Minnesota-speak) person. My part-time job and my historic eating choices are not helping my weight, and I know it. The weather is getting cold now, and I tend to hibernate and eat tasty comfort food.

As a feminist and as a woman, I struggle with my weight as a body image issue. I should still feel like the beautiful and confident woman people tell me I am. But, I cannot shake the voice in my head that tells me I don’t look like a model, and I can no longer fit into my size 6 pants. I don’t like standing next to smaller women, I don’t like to watch them on TV, and I know that my current shadow is completely eclipsing the size of the woman I used to be, in both size and self-esteem. Yet, all I am doing is lamenting about it.

I know the responsibility largely lies with me and the work I have to do on myself, both mentally and physically. There’s no passing of blame here. I do want to know how much of this standard comes from my surroundings and the culture in which I was raised. My mom’s tradition was to never leave the house without make-up on — and not lightly applied. I read Seventeen and Cosmopolitan when I was younger. I watched lots of TV with the “ideal” woman depicted. I was always coached to look good and well put-together. I wanted boys to like me. I eschewed compliments because it was the polite thing to do. I wasn’t popular with the boys, and I was always assuming that it was because I wasn’t Jenni or Melissa or Staci who were beautiful and popular and perfect. Size WAS everything.

Rationally, I am aware that these things are happening. I know now that women’s sizes are subjective, and inaccurate. Most women cannot buy clothes off the rack that fit properly. I just wish I could have some sort of inspiration that hits me in the heart. I can’t choose in what form that “inspiration” will take place, and I can only hope it’s not harmful to my loved ones or me. There’s no silver bullet; I need to dig into my reserves of strength to begin my personal makeover as soon as possible. I also want to be ok where I am. I need to know there’s no shame in a 14. I may have to look pretty far and wide for that kind of acceptance. The first place I should look needs to be in my mirror.

Freedom of the Written Word

I’ve always been a reader.

Ever since I was able to ride my bike by myself, I would go to the Scott County Library and check out books almost every day. Anna Mae Walsh, the librarian, knew me from a very young age. My dad used to take me to the library regularly, and I was always one of the best “summer reading program” participants. Anna Mae chatted with me regularly about reading, about books I might like. She was kind yet stern, and I wanted to be her. By age nine, I would take home three or four full-length novels, most of the time finishing all but one, and then return them to the library on my next trip, two days later. I’d read the stuff that was appropriate to my age, but after a while I started venturing into more advanced fiction. Anna Mae questioned my choices of Stephen King and V.C. Andrews; she wasn’t sure that a nine year old should be reading about such adult subject matters. She even asked me if my parents approved, in the way a teacher asks a student if she can handle challenging work. She knew I could; she knew I could read like the wind. She didn’t know I would leave the books outside my room at night so I could sleep- they scared the daylights out of me- but I kept checking them out. Pet Sematary was so scary, so real, so frightening that I didn’t sleep the night I finished it. My parents didn’t give me explicit freedom to stay up late, and they knew I was scared, but they didn’t admonish me for it. They knew that my habit was a gift, something that not many people in my family had- a love of reading. I was a homebody in the summers before I could work, so I spent a lot of my summers just reading, and I got pretty good at it. I never gave it a thought- of course I could read, and I did it because I loved it. No one told me I couldn’t read - the world of literature was endless for an ambitious reader like me.

Fast forward to my adult years, long after Anna Mae passed away. As I grew older, I began my traveling experiences to developing countries, working in educational forums. My first trip abroad was to China, where, for the first time, I was unable to read. Literature was inaccessible of course, because the books in the libraries and stores were in Chinese. Everywhere I looked, there were papers and magazines and signs with beautiful Chinese characters- that I couldn’t read. I learned quickly that reading for me was a reality base while I was in a place very much out of my comfort zone. I read whatever I could get my hands on, desperate to connect to my native tongue. Sometimes I found Harlequin romances lying around the campus, sometimes I found a People magazine left behind by a volunteer. My choices were severely restricted by language and by subject matter- the Chinese communist government only allowed certain materials to be sold in bookstores and newsstands. My students sensed my desperation and brought me to bookstores where they knew there would be legitimate English books. One of my classes even bought me a set of famous Chinese novels translated into English; it was such a caretaking gesture that I was almost moved to tears. It was exhausting to always be speaking English in a teaching capacity, so I read to keep my vocabulary limber. Even so, when I returned to the United States, I found that my way of speaking had been simplified, and temporarily I was unable to use many multi-syllabic words or contractions. I am certain that the minimal English I was able to read helped me to practice what I had worked for my entire life to develop. Although I was prevented from stretching my reading legs in unknown texts, the written word had at least retained my skill.

A few summers ago, Catholic Relief Services (CRS) selected me to be a part of the Frontiers of Justice program, where five other teachers and I traveled to India to learn about the programs CRS had in progress. The focus of many of the programs was women’s empowerment, so women were taking the lead in their communities to solve some of the problems relating to money lending, education, and health. In the Dumka district in the Indian state of Jharkand, CRS is executing a program that teaches women to read and write in their native Santhal language in approximately four to six weeks. My background as an English teacher caused me to be curious, and I viewed this endeavor very differently than my Religion teacher companions. What would it be like to be completely illiterate? I had never taken the time to whittle it down to something so simple. My world would be quite a bit smaller without my entitled skill of reading. My livelihood is my ability to interpret literature and to guide developing writers and readers; I was acutely aware of how valuable this skill and learning was. In fact, I would not have been able to apply to CRS’ program had I not been able to read or write. I was excited to learn of the impact literacy had in this tiny slice of the world.

When we met with women at a particular village called Asanbani, we learned the immeasurable value of their newly found freedom. Through a translator, we asked the women what it felt like to learn how to read and write. Several women responded: “Money lenders cannot cheat us now,” “My husband can no longer enslave me,” and “I know now that there is so much more to learn- the world has opened up to me.” We could not begin to speculate about the trials these women had endured during their education. For them, the precious freedom to read was truly the freedom to live, and they had persevered. Our translator challenged, “How do we know you can read?” All of the teachers were embarrassed, and felt that he was being disrespectful. We didn’t need proof- we heard the answers, we saw honesty and strength in their eyes. But one older woman rose to her bare feet in the humid, dusty room, stood amongst her female counterparts, and in Santhal calmly replied, “Give me a book and I will show you.” When a third grader reads out loud, she sounds out words as the piece is slowly read. This woman took the primer and read- slowly but surely, and with a shy confidence. We were in awe—she was simply reading, and in that moment we recognized that her life was forever changed by learning this skill. She continued, and suddenly another woman stood to read. More women volunteered to read, and we saw five women sound their way through the primer. If we had stayed for another three hours, I am confident that every woman in the room would have risen to her feet and read. Although there was generous applause for the readers from us and the other women, we were amazed, reflective, and reverent. We were truly in the presence of greatness.

So many times throughout my life, I have been unconstrained with my skill of literacy, along with my education, my job, and the circumstances that have brought me to the place I am today. On the other side of the world, women just like me have lived completely different lives, but have just recently been given this beautiful gift of literacy to free their minds and worlds. Watching those women, who could have been me under other circumstances, brought me to an important conclusion. The simple skill of knowing how to read makes a world of difference to many people we will never meet in our lives; it's a survival skill. Once, I was a kid riding my bike to and from the library all summer, and now I teach students how to be strong readers so they can be active contributors to our society. The Indian woman was once oppressed, and now she can model literacy for her daughters and sons so that they can have a better life. I believe that literacy is an essential freedom that will continue to empower people everywhere. I am fostering that freedom when I teach my students and continue to utilize literacy, and I celebrated freedom in the presence of the recently literate Indian woman who will help to change the future of her world.

House Hunting

There are so many emotional ups and downs to buying a house. The following is a poem I wrote for my husband during one of our "bidding periods." Maybe it's something with which some of you can resonate.

Voices

It’s beautiful outside. Quiet, snowy, and peaceful.

I am driving with my husband in search of a house. We’ve been stressed lately. Money is a consistent challenge. We want to be proud, we want to be grounded. We want to feel like we matter. We want so desperately to be the grown ups we are- a married couple with a space of our own.

We tried unsuccessfully to buy a house early this week. My husband wanted this badly. I wanted it for him, and for us. This is still weighing on his mind. His fears of failure are fresh but dull- a muscle ache deep in his heart.

Tonight, we saw a house. We saw parties and company and maybe even babies. We saw neighbors over the fence, we saw cookouts, we saw romantic dinners. We saw ourselves.

We also saw risk. High risk, and fear.

Defeat washes over my husband- a prophecy that has won this battle. We can barely afford…cannot buy a house. His normally relaxed face- the face I love- crumpled into heavy thought. I know he feels hopeless. I know he wants to hide, to cry, to scream, to fall in a heap. He says he is sorry. Such powerful words, such a suffocating burden; this burden should not be for my husband.

As we drive on Dale in warmth of our unhappy car, I glance out the window at the cemetery. It’s dark; I squint to see beyond shape after shape of quiet gravestones. I am drawn to the comfort of silence and unwavering peace.

Brief winks of light, a Morse code blinks across the still ground of the cemetery. Only I am meant to see this. The shiny granite reflects the light that traffic brings to a busy street.

The gravestones are alive. They are beckoning to me- an urgent message.

It will all be well. Leap, it tells me- as the light flits from one place to another. Go ahead and jump. We’re here. We hear. All will be well. We wish to guide you into light.

The dead are aware of our struggle. Ancestors have earned a place in history because they have struggled. They’ve done houses and marriage and babies. They’ve done frustration and pride and defeat. Many have loved so much that it hurts- like now.

All have failed, and all have succeeded. Just like us.

Now is the time to receive their message gracefully. We were never meant to be alone- just us. The forces surrounding us have been holding us dear all the while.

You will love, you will feel pride, you will be happy.

If you say so, I think. If you think we can.

You can. You will.

We will.

Love on the Internet Super Highway

This weekend marks the one year anniversary of my marriage to my husband. It's been a wonderful year; we have really learned to work together as a team. I am certain I've married the most beautiful human being on earth.

We met on the Internet, on Match.com.

I don't know why I am STILL embarrassed to say this. I made a great decision, and he made a great decision in writing me in the first place. We knew right away that we were meant for each other- minutes after we met face to face, we both recall a peace, affirming a feeling in our hearts. But for some reason, I still feel a wincing stigma attached to meeting someone online.

Our story is interesting. I was on both eharmony.com and Match.com for about a year and a half. I can't say I was really enthused about it; somehow I felt like I had failed to meet someone without "help." I'm also not the kind of person to sit back and let life happen, so I signed up for both. I went on a lot of first dates, and a small number of connections I made worked out into short mini-relationships lasting a month or a month and a half.

I'll admit that I also was online for a little ego trip. I'd log on, and there would, most of the time, be a few emails from interested men. Even if they were completely the opposite of who I was looking for, it was nice to get the attention without feeling harrassed. One guy emailed a picture of himself in a t-shirt depicting a deer, holding a gun, and occasional teeth smile stating that it "seamed lik we gots alot in comon." One guy said he liked teachers because they "get paid a ton, always wear a dress to work, and get summers off." One guy also assured me that he, "new how to treet a ladie." I'm sure these men were nice and probably were great in person, I just got more and more bitter as I continued. So much of online dating depends on a strong first impression, and if I was going to be aware of it in my emails and ad, I wanted the same respect.

Needless to say, I got a little tired of that kind of attention. I pulled my ads off both sites, and moved on with my life. I became extremely busy, and didn't really think much about dating. Then, one night during a particularly romantic episode of The West Wing, I caved and put my ad back up on Match.com. My loneliness had gotten the best of me. I drank a glass of wine and turned in, feeling sorry for myself.

The next morning, Thursday, I slipped back into my needy desire for acknowledgement, and I checked my email. A very attractive man had written to me (my future husband), and mentioned we had quite a bit in common. It was true: everything from careers in education to ages and birth order of siblings. I won't bore anyone with the specifics, but I was really intrigued and wrote back right away. We fervently exchanged emails over the next two days. We both have brothers with the same, and we both are the eldest, our youngest siblings are about 12 years behind each of us. We both come from parents who are educators, and we’ve both chosen to be educators. We lived 1.6 miles apart, which is the same distance his parents lived apart when they met. We’re both Geminis. He loved my handle: MuppetGirl27. And he really liked my smile.

He wasn’t my type. He was average height, medium build, and did not have a college degree. I usually went for tall, lanky, intellectual types. I was not his type. He liked Asian women, and usually women who were big into the outdoors. My blonde hair and blue eyes obviously defeats the Asian deal, and I like “luxury camping.” Somehow, though, we really wanted to connect as soon as possible.

We agreed to meet on Saturday night. I gave him my phone number, we met at a supper club/bar, and two days later, agreed to be exclusive. I need to interject here and mention that I would never encourage anyone to do what I did at the speed at which I did it. I should never have given out my phone number, and I should not have met someone so quickly. In fact, as it was all happening I would shake my head to myself (“this is not me….this is not me…”) and went on several “how to spot a con” websites.

I’m just so lucky that he turned out to be a genuine, uncomplicated and caring man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. Almost 6 months later, we were engaged, and we married a year ago this weekend. I’ve never been happier.

I think the reason we “work” now, especially considering our beginnings, is that we didn’t rely on email or chat rooms to communicate or express ourselves; our conversations, intimate and otherwise, take place in person. The stigma that surrounds Internet romance often comes from the experiences of never meeting face to face, and communication across distances too far to regularly travel. We are blessed to be able to talk about issues – both difficult and joyful.

I want everyone to experience the bliss we’ve been given. I just have to believe that when two people are meant to connect, personally or electronically, they will. Beauty comes in all forms, and in this day and age, we need to accept that it may blossom through the computer monitors of the world.

Missing Paul Wellstone

"The future will belong to those who have passion, and to those who are willing to make the personal commitment to make our country better." - Paul Wellstone
There was a beautiful tribute to Paul Wellstone on the OpEd page of the Strib today. And, like the writer of the article, David Morris, I am missing Wellstone today more than I have in a long time.

Of course, I miss him every morning I turn on NPR on my drive to work, or when I watch the news after I get home. There is inevitably a sound bite from someone in Washington, Democrat or Republican, who is rationalizing why she or he didn't do the right thing. They never really say they DIDN'T do the right thing, but they calmy explain, in political speak, why they just couldn't stick up for (fill in the blank)'s rights. It's really a no win situation, they say. What they mean is that it's a "I won't win" situation. What they mean is that it's really better to play it safe. Make sure you have someone backing you - someone with some serious clout. Make sure your butt's covered. Make sure your money's not gonna run out so that you can continue to play it safe.

There used to be a guy who did the right thing at his own political sacrifice; shouting when everyone thought they needed to whisper, swimming upstream against all who needed to push ahead downstream. Paul Wellstone showed us again and again that it was more important to act rather than to hem and haw; to push instead of stepping to the side. Now, there's no one to do that for us. Our country is in a sad state of affairs, and we sorely miss that little guy who spoke for those who could not speak.

Paul Wellstone wasn't a super hero. He wasn't invincible. Sadly, he wasn't immortal. He just knew that he needed to act with his heart for integrity and for love. We know that we can do this, but so often we look for the Wellstones of the world to show up to inspire us. Folks, the new Wellstone hasn't shown up in 4 years. There's a reason for that: we are the new Wellstones.

There isn't anyone to do it for us or to push us into acting on behalf of those who need us. So we have to. We need to be ready to shout, push, swim for those who cannot. Immigrants, the poor, the Middle East, the young, the disabled, the broken. Paul Wellstone is now someone who cannot shout, push, swim, act. We need to step up now. We need to honor him in ways he would recognize, beyond words and reminiscence. We need to emulate Paul to change this world, and to save what we hold dear. It's not about being a Democrat or a Republican. It's being uncomfortable, unsure, and sticking your neck out. It's recognizing how powerful your voice can be. Maggie Kuhn told us to "speak your mind, even if your voice shakes." It's now crucial to understand that silence and bystanding will not win the fight to sustain justice and equality.

We need Paul, but we can't have him back. We now need to recognize the Paul in us. We need to fight like he did because there is no one else there to do it. We need to take back our future and tap into the Wellstone passion that made life better for so many during his short time on earth.