I'm Sick of This Crap

"I'm not sure if I'm going through an assertiveness phase, or a raving bitch phase," I recently confided to some friends.

I had taken one of my kids (I forget which one - for our purposes, it's not important) to the doctor, and as I sat in the waiting room, I caught wind of a juicy bit of gossip. Naturally, I couldn't wait to pass it along. 

While the doctor examined my child, I filled her in. 

"I hear Hannah Arbromowitz's* mom took some medication last night, and now she doesn't know if she should nurse Hannah. She's been calling all morning - so annoying! Do you encourage your staff to discuss patient information in front of the people in the waiting room? Does it help build community?" 

No, that's not what I said, but wouldn't you prefer it was? I communicated like an adult, but I did rat out the receptionists for their HIPPA violation. 

"Because you're sick of this crap," one of my friends suggested. 

"I am," I confirmed. "I am sick of this crap." 

Not long after, we learned my husband's case had been rejected by the NIH Undiagnosed Disease Program. Turns out, it's similar to The Innocence Project, where they like to take cases they think stand a chance. Now, I don't know why one undiagnosed illness has a better chance of being diagnosed than another - you'd think if anyone knew what it was, it wouldn't be undiagnosed - but I'm no medical researcher. What I am is sick of this crap. 

My daughter has been talking all year about how at the end of this year, she and her fellow fifth graders are scheduled to watch a video on puberty. "Sex ed," I thought it was. The children are simultaneously intrigued and horrified, and have made plans to spend the year leading up to said video fearing to watch, but not daring to look away. 

I was a bit surprised to learn the boys and girls would be separated, and all they're going to do is watch a video. I have since learned they will also be having a frank discussion with their teacher, so that's a plus. I'm betraying my age, but you see, in my day, giggles and secrecy were discouraged. In both fourth and sixth grades, my class had an entire unit on sex ed, taught my our teachers, and it was comprehensive and fact-based.

I don't believe there was a video involved (there was one in ninth grade, but in Mr. Morgan's defense, what was he going to do? Have a woman give birth in front of the class, live?), as such things were considered outdated and absurd. Proof? My husband and I, although we didn't meet until our 20s, still laugh at a video on train safety we both happened to see. 

A family was stopped in their car on the train tracks. The children noticed there was a train coming, and mentioned it to their father.

"Well, it's just going to have to wait!" 

Needless to say, those were his last words. As kids, we shook our heads and laughed grimly. We knew better, and we've been repeating that line ever since. 

To add insult to injury, my daughter told me that not only does her school's "sex ed" (her teacher has since corrected me on this - it is not sex ed, she has explained to me, but rather a video on maturation) consist of a single video, and not only are the boys and girls separated for it, but there are two different videos. But wait, there's more! Not only are there two different videos, one for girls and one for boys, but the girls watch both, while the boys watch only the "boy" one. 

I fretted over this a little, but concluded it couldn't possibly be true. The most likely explanation, I decided, was that the girls in my daughter's grade had gotten this information from girls a year older than themselves, igniting a rumor born of ignorance - the girls had talked among themselves, and didn't really know what the boys had seen. School yard rumor. A game of telephone.

"Kids," I thought. "The things they come up with!" I smiled and shook my head. It was for precisely this reason that sex ed was so important - look how kids could twist the facts if they were left to their own devices. Preposterous. 

However, last week, my daughter told me something that made me wonder if the children had been right all along. From the mouths of babes, and all that. 

"The boys' parents were complaining, so they stopped showing them the girls' video," she told me. 

This rang a bit more true, but still - really? Boys' parents had complained? And the school had appeased them? I emailed my daughter's teacher, who confirmed that, while she was not happy with this turn of events, it was true. The squeaky wheel had gotten the grease. Since none of the girls' parents had complained, they had continued providing the girls with complete information. After all, why keep all the students ignorant, when they could get away with actually educating half of them? 

Can't argue with that, but have I mentioned being sick of this crap? 

I don't want either of my children dating a boy who hasn't been taught some basic information about the female body. In regards to my daughter, the reasons for this should be obvious. But I don't want my son dating a boy raised in such a manner, either. Imagine, if you will, my son is gay. In reality, I do not have the foggiest idea if he's gay or not, but for the sake of argument, assume he is. 

Now, if my son says he's gay, he's gay. However, can I say the same of a boy who doesn't even know what breasts are for? Maybe he has simply been driven into the arms of another man because the idea that girls are icky has been so deeply embedded in his brain. Later, it will slowly dawn on him that he's heterosexual. 

That's right. It's entirely possible my son's heart could be broken, all because I have no control over the fact that other parents insist on forcing their kids to wallow in ignorance. No thanks! 

I picture my family three, five, ten years in the future. One of my kids has brought a nice boy home to meet the family. I mean, he seems like a nice boy, but how can I be sure? 

After offering him a cup of tea, I invite him to join me on the couch. 

"Please, help yourself," I'll say, gesturing toward the crudités. 

"So," I ask him, while he nibbles on a sugar snap pea, "are you familiar with the concept of menstruation?" 

"MOM!!!!" my son or daughter will exclaim, mortified. 

"What?" I'll ask, pretending I have no idea why this might bother them. "I'm just trying to make conversation with your friend!" 

I'll smile as I briefly make eye contact with the boy in question, shaking my head and rolling my eyes. My kids - it seems like everything I do embarrasses them these days! I just can't win. I take it in stride, although I'll wonder aloud if he is this hard on his parents.

On the other hand, maybe the boy whose parents didn't allow him to see the video really is gay. By coincidence, he's gay and from a family that encourages willful ignorance. One can easily imagine that his parents aren't too keen on the gays, either. With my son-in-law estranged from his family, I never have to share the holidays. Don't get me wrong. They try. My husband and I spend Christmas of 2037 alone, our son with his husband's parents, our daughter shooting a film on location in Belarus. But things don't go well, and by 2038, I have all my babies back again. **

I could try complaining to the principal, but it's probably out of her hands, too. Anyway, since not telling boys about what puberty involves for girls is clearly going to work in my favor, maybe I should just leave it alone. 

*Names have been changed. 

**I mean my son and son-in-law's visit with the in-laws doesn't go well. My daughter accomplished exactly what she had set out to with her film, it's just done. 

Be More Better!

“I no longer have patience for certain things, not because I’ve become arrogant, but simply because I reached a point in my life where I do not want to waste more time with what displeases me or hurts me. I have no patience for cynicism, excessive criticism and demands of any nature. I lost the will to please those who do not like me, to love those who do not love me and to smile at those who do not want to smile at me.

I no longer spend a single minute on those who lie or want to manipulate. I decided not to coexist anymore with pretense, hypocrisy, dishonesty and cheap praise. I do not tolerate selective erudition nor academic arrogance. I do not adjust either to popular gossiping. I hate conflict and comparisons. I believe in a world of opposites and that’s why I avoid people with rigid and inflexible personalities. In friendship I dislike the lack of loyalty and betrayal. I do not get along with those who do not know how to give a compliment or a word of encouragement. Exaggerations bore me and I have difficulty accepting those who do not like animals. And on top of everything I have no patience for anyone who does not deserve my patience.”

This is the latest "older women who have learned shit" quote I've seen going around. It's been attributed, apparently falsely, to Meryl Streep, but it hardly matters. It's pretty typical. "I'm a woman in her 40s, 50s or 60s, and I've learned that I'm too nice and other people suck."

From the time I was very young, I had a sinking suspicion that I was really meant to be middle-aged. This used to bother me, but I've learned it's a blessing. I am convinced that my best days are not behind me. Now I almost wish I'd always had a sinking suspicion I was meant to be 92. But I think this is better, because you never know. 

When David Rakoff articulated the way I felt about the whole thing, I almost cried with relief. But mostly I almost cried because David Rakoff had died, at the age of 47, having only just reached what he thought would be his perfect age. I never had an exact number in mind like he did, so I'll just take comfort in knowing I'm getting there, and I may live to see my entire heyday. 

I'm a bit younger than most older women who have learned things, so I suppose I could still get to the point where I believe all I need to know is that I'm better than everyone else. For now, I've learned some things, and most of them have nothing to do with other people wanting to take me down. While I am indeed less of a pleaser than I used to be, the fact that I once was can't be blamed on those I aimed to please. They're on their journey, I'm on mine, and as another old Facebook saying goes, everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle. 

Now that I've reached my late 30s, I'm probably not as "nice" as I was when I was younger, but that works out for everyone, because I'm kinder. I'm more forgiving and less inclined to gossip. A natural grudge-holder, nursing a grudge is now a halfhearted endeavor at best. I accept other people for who they are, and know they're doing their best. I rarely ask "why me," having come to truly accept that the question is as futile as it is self-centered and clueless. 

I know when I'm upset with someone, it's often about me, and the best way to handle that is to own my issues. Being nasty and rude is a poor imitation of strength, and I'll tell you what - strength? I have it. Did I always have it, without realizing it? Or is it a recent development? Don't know, don't care. I don't think I even knew I wanted it until the day I realized it was there. What I do know is, strength rarely looks defensive or unkind. When I'm acting that way, it's coming from a place of weakness. Strength is empathy, understanding, and, most (and, for me, most difficult) of all, patience. 

I started my 30s feeling happy with my husband and children, but not much else. I didn't feel I had close friends. Although I was just finishing grad school, I thought I'd never find my career or my passion. I'd wasted every advantage I'd been given, and now it was too late. But this decade has been the best one. Everything I thought I didn't have has grown up around me, and I hardly even had to try. 

I know I've made a million mistakes, and while I'm not one to say I have no regrets, I can honestly tell myself I have always, every day, done the best I could. I can be sad I didn't have the (usually internal) resources I needed to do things differently, but I can't be angry, because I would have had to be someone else for my past to have been dramatically different than it was. I'm making mistakes now, and I believe in my heart that Old Erin will extend me the same understanding I have for Young Erin, even if Young Erin did me many a disservice, and I'm doing the same to Old Erin. 

ADD. I have it. It sucks. There are things that, as a reasonably intelligent, able-bodied woman, I "should" be able to do, yet some of these things fall outside of my skill set. The fact that others may not understand or believe this bothers me, but I've learned that if I know in my heart I can't do something, it's better not to pretend I can. Don't make commitments I can't keep, even if the person who wants me to make said commitment will never believe it's a can't rather than a won't. It will be better for everyone in the long run. As much as I might like to make other people happy by saying "yes," only I know exactly how much follow through and organization I'm capable of. If I'm not positive I can do it, I won't pretend I can. It's not about setting boundaries, it's about knowing my limitations. I'm disorganized, and I can be unreliable. Although it turns out, my limitations are not as many and massive as I once believed they were.

Maybe you've seen me fail at any of the things I'm claiming I've learned. In my defense, I'm not even 38 years old. Very young to have learned much of anything. I'm working on it. 

Ruining It For the Rest of Us

These are my new shoes. They're surprisingly comfortable. By which I mean, they're more comfortable than they look. I thought I wouldn't be able to walk in them, but I can, and easily. But let's be clear. Surprisingly comfortable does not equal comfortable. 

A week or so ago, I posted this picture on Facebook, asking if they looked like stripper shoes. Today at church, my friend Susie asked me if those were the shoes, and I told her they were. 

While agreeing they were fabulous, she whispered, somewhat skeptically, "So...are those post-feminist?" 

I was glad she asked, because I'm not being sarcastic in the least when I say I had wanted to have this discussion with someone. Not over the shoes, per se, but in general. 

"No," I whispered back, "they aren't feminist."

"I was thinking, post-feminist, or sexism?" 

"Sexism," I answered confidently. It's probably technically a matter of opinion, but I know where I fall. 

"But you're participating in it!" she argued. Not angry, just a bit perplexed. 

"Yes," I answered. She looked at me quizzically. 

Unfortunately, it was the middle of the service, not a good time to talk. 

"I definitely want to have this conversation with you," I told her, "so let's catch each other when we can." 

There is no need for anyone to say she did anything wrong. I wasn't bothered by what she asked, did not feel judged in the least, agree with her 100%, and our Unitarian Universalist church was exactly the right place to do it. If I'd had enough time to formulate my thoughts, I could have explained it to her quite succinctly. 

"I'm wrong." 

Doing whatever the hell you want is not feminism. Feminism is a movement - it's about lifting up a group of people. Decisions that align with a movement aren't about doing what you feel like, not even necessarily about what's best for you at any given moment. By wearing uncomfortable, impractical shoes, I'm not doing myself or anyone else any favors. I'm creating both short and long term problems for myself, and I'm creating just a little bit of pressure on other women to do the same. 

I wear these shoes because I think they're fun. Fun looking, not fun like shoes with trampolines at the bottom would be. Like makeup, shaving my legs, and probably some other things I'm too brainwashed to notice, I do it because I think it makes me look better. If I lived on a desert island and had never been exposed to mainstream media, and you approached me with these shoes and suggested I wear them, I'm pretty sure I'd think you were out of your damn mind. 

Is it unfeminist to want to look good? I'll just say it - kind of. Men want to be attractive, but don't spend the time, money, or energy women do on it. They don't wear shoes that aren't actually much good for walking. "Attractive" is fine, if it means clean, healthy, and not stinky. The effort women put into it, the physical and psychological damage we subject ourselves to? The level of importance we place on it? It's sexist. It just is. 

I'd suggest most women make some concessions to the patriarchal system we're a part of, and when we do, we are both victims and perpetrators. I get to pick out my own shoes, and nobody has tried to say I can't. However, over the last ten or twenty years, third wave feminism has created an environment that allows me to get self-righteous if anyone even dares to question. But just because you can doesn't mean you should. 

In an attempt to have it both ways, women often argue vehemently in favor of things that would make any feminist from, say, the beginning of time until 1990 roll over in their grave, or, if they're alive, vomit. We have to stop subjecting each other to manipulations like this or this. Yeah, I think Elizabeth Wurtzel is a particularly loathsome individual. 

Occasionally, I'll hear women say they do these things "for themselves." "It just so happens that the things I want to do for myself and all my aesthetic preferences mesh exactly with what I've been told to like and want and think are attractive!" A) You might not want to take so much pride in that, and B) No. 

I wear makeup, which is, in my mind, possibly the most fucked up of all my choices, because it means I hand my money over to a corporation that absolutely, inarguably relies on women being insecure. I think it's fun, but again, context. I live here and now. I believe certain things because I'm supposed to. 

There are some concessions I've opted out of. When that gets hard, I'm somewhat resentful of the women who conceded. So, by the same logic, the woman who doesn't want to wear makeup to her job interview, but is afraid she won't be hired if she doesn't, has every right to resent me. Because what I've done isn't cool, and it isn't nice. 

I'm a mother. Literally, yes, but also figuratively. Not to be too grandiose - it's not personal. Other people influence me, and I influence other people. I can say I shouldn't have to worry about it all I want, but that won't make it any less true. As feminists, as women, as members of the human race, as earthlings, as sentient beings, we owe each other. 

So, without further ado...

Stuff I Do That's Bullshit

1. Wear makeup.
2. Shave my legs.
3. Shave my armpits.
4. Wear uncomfortable shoes. 
5. Exercise I don't like (a gray area, since there's a health element, but that's not really my motivation). 

There's more, but it gets more volatile. I don't want to lose any friends over it, and I truly believe that if I listed some of it, no matter how carefully I tried to explain, I would. I've also chosen not to do some things I think are sexist bullshit, but for obvious reasons, that's even more of a "don't go there." So maybe I should add at least one more thing to my list: 

    6. Be a coward. 

The very least I can do here is not twist us all up in mental gymnastics by explaining why trying to make myself acceptable for men/society/male society is empowering. It might sometimes feel empowering, but it's not. I'm not going to pretend all my choices are feminist just because they're being made by a woman. I'm just going to have to admit that sometimes, being a feminist isn't my top priority. Even when it probably should be. If you question me, you are right. 

Until I Say Goodbye to Denial

"What a golden age, 

what a time of right and reason

the consumers king 

and unhappiness is treason"

- The Magnetic Fields, Strange Powers

or 

Half memoirs, half self-help books make me a little wary, because what works for one person may do the opposite for another. Until I Say Goodbye by Susan Spencer-Wendel was no exception. I read it and liked it, and would have liked it more if it were only meant to serve as a memoir and a love letter to the author's children. But that isn't how it was marketed, and it isn't the entire intention. The intention of this book is to let us all know that if a woman dying of ALS while she has three young children can "live with joy," the rest of us have no excuse.

Nonsense.

I must object to the widely held idea that there's something selfish and self-indulgent about being unhappy. It's absurd. By its very definition, people do not like being unhappy. This is almost always true, no matter how many mental gymnastics you do to convince yourself that, since unhappy people can be unpleasant, they must be enjoying it, and therefore you're free to judge. Furthermore, undesirable emotions are part of being alive. Being happy all the time is not an option, although for a variety of reasons, it's more attainable to some than others. 

Susan Spencer-Wendel seems to have been a great person. Hard working, high achieving, and a barrel of fun. She had a million friends, a devoted husband and three lovely children. When she was diagnosed with ALS, she decided she wouldn't feel sorry for herself, but instead be joyful because she was alive. Which is great. I'm glad she could do it. I'm glad she was able to pack so much into her last couple of years. My concerns is the "What's your excuse?" tone of this book. I'm afraid it will be read by terminally ill people or, worse, their friends and acquaintances, and used as a means to deny them feelings deemed inconvenient to themselves or others. So now not only do they have to cope with dying decades before they expected to, but they have to pretend to be at peace with it. If that happens for some, great. But it's an unreasonable expectation, and an unacceptable demand.

Spencer-Wendel had two things going for her that most don't. One, money. Although there were moments of her appreciating simple things available to anyone, for the most part, where did she get this joy she was living with? She bought it. Which is fine for her - given her circumstances, I'd have done the same. However, if this is how living with joy is attained, I'm afraid it isn't available to most people. Again, this is fine for a memoir, but troubling if it's meant to serve as a guide for others, which it is. Even her simple pleasures take place in luxury hotels, exotic destinations, or the lavish "chickee hut" she decided she desperately needed in her back yard. Don't go spending staggering amounts of money to make yourself happy and have the audacity to imply that those who can't do it are weak or self-indulgent (seriously, going on a massive spending spree is somehow presented as not indulging oneself). If the things you use to make yourself happy are largely out of reach for most people, you've lost your claim to smug. Edit: Whatever makes you happy, it's not available to everyone. Don't be smug. 

If you like memoirs by affluent women coming to terms with the reality that they won't be there to see their children grow up, might I suggest A Matter of Life and Death, by Marjorie Williams? It's only an article, but all these years later it remains one of the best pieces of writing I've ever encountered. I'm loathe to imply Marjorie Williams did it "right" and Susan Spencer-Wendel did it "wrong," because they were two different women. But I do think seeing someone take almost the exact opposite approach has merit. Williams was in her emotions. All of them. She was terrified, resentful and furious, and none of this robbed her of the ability to find joy in the fact that she was alive.

Williams also acknowledged her privilege, which, to the best of my recollection, Spencer-Wendel didn't even pretend to do. You see, while Oprah encourages gratitude, she's mostly talking to people who can't afford luxury. She also encourages the successful not to feel guilty, because you know, law of attraction. You're entitled to anything you have. The more you have to be grateful for, the less you are morally obliged to bother. This seems to be the position Spencer-Wendel took, and in the process she managed to achieve something almost impossibly difficult - joy without gratitude. Gratitude requires at least some degree of humility, and completely excludes entitlement.

Even if you have money, the level of joy attained by Spencer-Wendel may not be in the cards for you. The other ingredient here was a brain that, for whatever reason, wasn't prone to depression. "You are the master of your mind," was her motto, but what she really meant was, "I am the master of my mind." She had not lived with schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, or obsessive compulsive disorder. Where does the mind end and the brain begin? She did suffer from one episode of mild depression as a young adult, but it was brief and treatable. When she was diagnosed with ALS, she went on anti-depressants, which she and her husband called "happy pills." Well, let me tell you something - they do not work that way for most people.

Her joy seems to be as much about proving she's right as anything. Again, that's fine - whatever gets you through the night. Heaven knows she had the right to do whatever she had to do to comfort herself. However, it created a thread of dishonesty that ran throughout most of the book. I found she was most relatable when she allowed herself to have uncomfortable feelings, which usually manifested in grief over the probability that she would miss seeing her children grow up. It would be impossible not to feel for her while she was lying in bed, unable to move or even raise her voice, and listening to her terrified son screaming because he was locked in an elevator (also, I suspect, because his mom was dying).

Another example of simple humanity was her taking her teenage daughter to try on a wedding dress. I can't imagine she was the type of woman who sat around planning her daughter's wedding, but even so, the time came when, knowing she would never see any such thing, she indulged herself and talked her daughter (who wanted a mini-skirt) into humoring her. In addition to allowing her a small glimpse into a future she wouldn't see, she also felt it might do something to infuse her daughter with a sense of her presence on some future date when she may very much want it.

Later, she took her to see Wicked on Broadway (which, I feel compelled to mention, would out of necessity be where the financial self-indulgence began and ended for most people), and cried during one of the songs. Looking over, she saw her daughter was also crying. After the show, she asked why, and her daughter told her "I was crying because you were crying." "No more of that," Spencer-Wendel admonished herself. But I had to wonder - did she make her daughter cry, or did she allow her daughter to cry? Would the grief have arisen anyway, tears or no tears?

I'll admit to having pegged Susan Spencer-Wendel as a type. Specifically, a type I have a hard time with - someone who owes their ability to achieve to being intelligent, but somewhat shallow. These people are usually not troubled souls, and I don't begrudge then that. The trouble arises when they lack compassion, which in my experience, many of them do. A healthy dose of self-centeredness allows them to do well for themselves, but leaves them with little ability to try on different points of view. Considering how well this world view works for them, can I really say it's a problem? If avoiding unpleasant emotions and alternative points of view made her last couple of years as pleasant as possible, perhaps these people are right - they do have it figured out.

The problem is insisting others process things the same way. The author dubbed her older son, Aubrey, a "complainer," but admitted this went hand in hand with him being what his teacher described as an old soul. Sensitive to himself and others, and keenly aware of what was going on around him. In a rare moment of insight into how people who differ from herself function, she was terribly sad for him, knowing life in general would be more painful for him than for her, her husband or her daughter (her younger son is autistic, and presented as being on an entirely different emotional plane). The question is, when sadness, anger, fear and grief all fall under the "self-pity" umbrella, where is there room for someone like Aubrey?

My intention isn't to question the parenting decisions she and her husband made. Indeed, one of the few examples of her displaying any vulnerability happened when she explained how they chose to present her illness to their kids. This was what they chose to do, these were their reasons, and all she could do was fervently hope it was the right thing. It's hard to judge under those circumstances. What parent hasn't been there?

I'm not saying Susan Spencer-Wendel did any of it wrong, only that what's right for her may not be right, or even possible, for others. The last thing any of us need when we have a problem is the added responsibility of feeling like moral failures because we aren't happy about it.

The day you realize you'll never swim again just might be a bad day. You can decided not to allow yourself to feel any regret over it.

Imagine that your brain is made of tiny boxes,
and find the box thats sad and CRUSH IT!
Ok?

Or you can feel whatever emotions come up for you, and let them go when they're ready. If you choose the latter, Oprah may not be as impressed with you, but perhaps being honest and authentic has value, too. 

Limbo

Limbo is uncomfortable and unpleasant. Is it worse than hell? I'd like to think not, but who knows? It doesn't matter. There's no point in comparing misfortune. I'm relatively certain we don't all get our equal share. It doesn't come out fair in the end. If I keep that in mind, I know this cosmic unfairness has, so far, been skewed in my favor.

Even now that my husband has been suffering from some unknown ailment for....how long? Two years? Three? Four? Even now, we're lucky. It's probably the best time in human history to be undiagnosed. Time was, a clinic in Bethesda, Maryland was the only place in the country dedicated to people with undiagnosed ailments. Even that has only been around since 2008. But just this summer, six more clinics have opened across the country.

Dr. House is real, sort of, in the form of Dr. William Gahl. Except he's a real guy, a team player, takes offense to being compared to Dr. House, and the majority of his cases still go unsolved. Even so, it's very heartening.

Lucky or not, days, months, years go by, and sometimes I am very, very tired. Not as tired as Jeremy, my undiagnosed husband. I'm not forgetting that it is he, and not myself, who is sick. But still. So. Goddamn. Tired. So tired I'm not sure if I'm even writing coherently, and but I'll probably publish it without making sure.

I can't open a bottle of mineral water, so I think of asking Jeremy. He can usually open bottles and jars, I think. Once upon a time, if he couldn't, I wouldn't have thought anything of it. I would have blamed the bottle. But now, I'm terrified of finding out he can't, so I don't ask him to do it. I get a rubber band out of the junk drawer and wrap it around the lid. If that doesn't work, I'll have plain old water. I should have been self-reliant enough to figure these things out on my own all along, shouldn't I?

I've always understood that it wasn't neglect or carelessness that led to Jeremy's lack of diagnosis. The doctors don't know. If you don't know, you don't know. They can either be honest about that, like they have been, or they can make something up, and I'd rather they didn't. The individual doctors aren't to blame, but I see now that the medical profession does bear some responsibility. One might think undiagnosed illnesses and the internet are a match made in heaven. After all, if a disease is rare, it stands to reason that a doctor, even a specialist, will rarely see it. But doctors with patients they can't diagnose live as though it's the 20th century. Complain about it all you want, but the internet has a lot of non-frivolous purposes, and this could be one of them. Consider, for example, Heather Long's idea. It came to her in the worst possible way.

I know you don't have any money. I know you're already donating what you can to whatever causes resonate the most with you, and I can respect that what resonates with you might be different than what resonates with me. I can even dig that your reasons may be less selfish than my own. It's so annoying to be constantly hit up for money. But I'd really like to see this film be finished. Donate if you want to.

It's important. For you, and me (but mostly me).

Well, mostly Jeremy, but I can't work in a delightful song if I put it that way. We don't even necessarily need better medical advances (although it couldn't hurt). We just need to be able to make the most of what we already have. Raising awareness would help quite a bit with that.

It's not that we feel alone. We don't. I don't. Jeremy probably does, because how could he not? When I read about people with serious diseases, they have almost always heard the most awful, insensitive things. Not us! This entire, um, journey (we'd go on more actual journeys without it, prolly) has reaffirmed what every hardship in my life has taught me - that people are wonderful. We're not lacking in emotional support (but I don't mean stop). What we really need is practical, tangible help. From the medical community.

It Isn't a Girl!

A year or so ago, I suddenly became obsessed with Jack the Ripper. I went on a two or three day long murderer spree, combing the internet for information. After that, I abruptly forgot all about it. This week, I was terribly relieved to hear he had been identified through DNA testing. This may not be true, but I have to believe it is. Because the alternative is too disturbing to contemplate. This chapter in "my" life needs to be closed.

While combing through a list of suspects, I came face to face with the terrifying possibility that Jack the Ripper was Jill the Ripper. It's difficult to fully convey how much this upset me. I'm pretty sure the page I linked to contains a pencil drawing of a guess of what she looked like, but the truth is I can't even have that in front of me long enough to say for sure. The idea, as I remember it, was that she could have been a midwife, someone who could walk around with blood on her clothes without drawing suspicion.

The question is, why does the possibility that a savage serial killer could have been a woman bother me so much? These victims died under the same horrific circumstances regardless of the gender of their killer. But logic doesn't change a thing. The very idea of Jack the Ripper being female makes my blood run cold.

I can speculate. Maybe it's because women are conditioned to fear male violence. I make it a (mostly unconscious) policy to exercise caution around men I don't know. It's not that I think women are angels. There was that girl in seventh grade who wanted to fight me. I could get punched in the face by one, or have money or even my identity stolen. But I guess I've always implicitly trusted other women not to sadistically murder me.

You know how sometimes, you're talking to someone, and you realize they're thinking about the best way to dispose of your body? Neither did I, until I answered an ad on Craigslist after my son was born. A woman claiming to be pregnant with a boy and destitute was soliciting baby things, so I gave her a call. But when we tried to make plans, she started making every excuse she could think of not to meet me at a neutral location. She was working very hard to get me to her house.

"This woman wants to kill me and steal my baby!" I thought. At the time, I thought it probably wasn't true, but for a number of reasons didn't seem worth the risk. A year later, I heard of a woman who was murdered in Oregon after answering a very similar ad.

So I'm semi-confident that the only person who's ever seriously considered killing me was female. Still, I find the idea of a a grizzly, cold-blooded female killer who preys on other women to be uniquely chilling. No matter your gender, I don't recommend you be a serial killer. But if you identify as female, poison is the preferred method. A lady never engages in bludgeoning. Do I really have to tell you this? I'm sorry to lay out my gender biases like this, but it's something I feel strongly about.

In many ways, I'm scared to death of women. Even so, they have this way of making me feel like they won't murder me. A lot of men have this ability too - nay, many men are quite capable of not seeming like they'll kill you - just not quite as reliably as women do.

I was surprised by my extreme reaction when it first came up, and discussed it with a few friends. At least one felt differently.

"Jack the Ripper has always freaked me out, but if it was a woman, well, I guess she must have had her reasons."

Stop It, Teachers

It's that time of year. Teachers go back to work, kids go back to school, and people who have no idea what they're talking about start bitterly complaining about the possibility that somewhere out there, there could be a teacher working under passable employment conditions. Which is a bad thing, because we have collectively decided that for teachers to have a decent, reliable job is not good for children. This is so widely accepted that teachers don't dare to express any self-interest at all. I love you all, but have you been brainwashed? Do you have Stockholm Syndrome? Because it kind of seems like you agree with those who believe you have no right to financial stability, a supportive work environment, or any desire to a happy life outside of work.

You run around, writing things like this. You make excellent points. You assure us everything you do is for the good of the children, and every word you say it true. However, while you do that, you're defending yourselves against hysterical accusations that you shouldn't have to dignify with an answer. The more you assure us that everything you do is for the children, the more you play into the implication that it somehow benefits kids for their teachers to have crappy jobs. You tacitly agree that putting any energy into your own needs is in opposition to the best interest of all children, everywhere. 

"The teachers have a union. What do the kids have???" ask hand-wringing c-list celebrities. True, kids are vulnerable. But frankly, their interests are being overrepresented here, although it's happening in a deeply disingenuous way. In a way that, ironically, isn't doing them any favors. They're going to grow up and enter the job market. Some of them will become teachers. What do we want to see waiting for them when they get there?

This year, Whoopi Goldberg, a Hollywood actress turned person-who-talks-out-of-her-ass-for-a-living, is the vehicle for the argument that tenure protects "bad teachers", but it could have been anyone. She claims to be a thinker, but she's merely repeating what millions of others have already voiced. You want to talk about someone with no accountability? There's no reason for Goldberg to put herself out by researching or even employing her critical thinking skills. She has a larger audience than any teacher, but there will be no consequences if it's revealed she has no idea what she's talking about. She has zero incentive to be responsible. Worst case scenario, she loses her job, spends an evening crying into her solid gold pillow. She does a little soul searching. She asks herself if she'd rather find a new project (so she can be fulfilled - she doesn't have to worry about supporting herself), or if it would be better to drop out and live out her days in luxurious retirement. If there's a teacher out there whose biggest concern is that you might get your feelings hurt, call me! I'd love to know your secret. 

Oh, to return to the golden days of childhood, when Whoopi starred in major motion pictures, playing fictional characters who made you believe Whoopi herself was intelligent, interesting and likable. You're a little black woman in a big, silver box. You breathed new life into the nun's choir. You let go of the fact that the woman you were madly in love with couldn't love you back, and sat right by Mary Louise Parker's side while she died of AIDS. I want to love you. I really do. 

After receiving some backlash that will not have the slightest negative effect on her life, Whoopi issued this very condescending rebuttal: 

Oh, your children and grandchildren went to school, or are currently attending! Than naturally, you know what you're talking about. Not everyone cay say that. Oh, wait. Yes they can. Literally every American can say they, their children, their grandchildren or someone they know has attended school, because we're all offered a free, comprehensive education. Whoopi Goldberg has indeed established herself as someone who has the bare minimum knowledge in this area. 

In the end, she mentions she's the child of a teacher. Like me, and Matt Damon. So why is Matt Damon so much more (forgive me) schooled in this issue than she is?

I can't get enough of Matt Damon being intelligent, sane and thoughtful. Why hasn't he been offered a spot on The View? Because while Goldberg clarifies that she was only talking about bad teachers, Damon exposes why that's such a manipulative point for her, or anyone, to make. So does Yuhuru Williams. 

Opponents of tenure however have used the “bad teacher” argument as a thinly veiled effort to attack teacher unions, claiming that they represent the interests of underperforming teachers over students. In reality, when empowered by state law to do so, teacher unions are often the loudest voices in favor of critical reforms that benefit students. By advocating for small class sizes, increased opportunities for professional development, safe and secure instructional spaces, and much needed resources for student instruction, teacher unions are generally the first and strongest advocates for interventions on issues such as poverty and the inadequate distribution of resources that most contribute to low-performing schools.

What's a bad teacher? There is no definition. It seems a bad teacher is someone who has offended a child or parent in some way. Over the course of a 30 or 40 year career, will even one teacher be able to escape this accusation? Currently, there is no way of measuring teacher performance that doesn't penalize the hardest working teachers - the ones who work with the highest need students. If you're so worried about holding teachers accountable, maybe you should be working on finding a way to do so.

But teachers. Teachers, teachers, teachers. You work hard every day. Your career required you to make a considerable investment of money and time to even get through the front door. You're professionals, and most of you hold yourselves to a high standard. Would you mind spending 13 years educating my children? The average person would laugh in my face, but a teacher doesn't blink. "Sure!" they say.

Do they do it for the money? The status? The summers off? Because they secretly love seeing children falling on the playground? The answer isn't my concern. I don't ask my children's pediatrician to do an amazing job overseeing my kids' health, and also prove she's worthy of doing so. Is it really, really important for her to do a good job? Does she owe it to me, and to my kids? Yes. But I'm not going to focus on that. "Somebody, think of the children!" has been done to death. It's important for professionals who cater to our physical, psychological and intellectual health to be well-meaning and competent. Duh. It goes without saying. I've already said too much, and in doing so done exactly what I'm lambasting teachers for doing.

Again, though, I say teachers! You aren't helping when you make sure to emphasize that every decent working condition you fight for is for the children, and that those children are you students, not the ones you have at home. Mentioning your own kids' needs is forboden. In the context of fighting for your working conditions, you never do it. Look, I'm not downplaying how important you are to your students. My kids will remember you all their lives. But those kids many of you have at home, the ones who are legally yours? You love them more. Admit it, and know that's the way it should be. It benefits them for you to be financially stable. They need houses, healthcare, college funds, enriching experiences and satisfied parents who aren't constantly worried about their livelihood, and unlike my kids, they're completely dependent on you to provide it all. No matter how much you love them and they love you, I'm virtually certain my kids won't be at your death bed. Yours will.

You defend yourselves against accusations of having some interest in your own job security and financial situation without ever stopping to say, "Well, yeah. I have what should be a firmly middle-class job, and I care about securing a middle-class lifestyle for my family."

I'm the child of a public school teacher, the product of dozens of them, and now the parent of two children in public school. So basically, I'm Whoopi Goldberg, a person with average knowledge. Unlike her, I have an original point to make. One that, disturbingly, I never hear. The Emperor is naked. The kids are very important, but no more important than their teachers. Fortunately, teachers and students do not have conflicting needs. But when does a person's well-being stop mattering? At the age of 18? Upon the birth of their first child? Or do you stop mattering the second you have a teaching certificate in your hand?

While you repeatedly assure us it's all about the kids, you play into the idea that you don't and shouldn't matter. You also seem to aggravate the stunning entitlement already displayed by the general public - we are further convinced you owe it to us to give us your lives. You don't. You provide a service, we compensate you for it. The fact that you put heart and passion into it is just so much velvet. It shows, it has a positive influence on all of us, but it can't be measured, and you don't have to suffer to prove it. No one is held to our collective puritanical morality the way you are, but have you stopped to ask yourself if you really believe in it? You didn't take a vow of poverty (well, that's debatable, but you shouldn't have had to). Nowhere in your job description does it say you must live an ascetic lifestyle at all times, and your students do not benefit from you volunteering for one.

They're kids for a short time. All too soon, they grow up. They get jobs. Some of them become teachers. Can you really tell me those students don't have a special place in your heart? When you sell yourself out, you sell them out. Period. No matter what they do, the conditions of one standard, run-of-the-mill middle class career influences all the others. Don't sell them out. Give them the chance to grow up and have a stable future. You do this already, of course, by teaching then every day. Yet here I am, audacious enough to ask that you do more. It's too much to ask. It's not fair. You didn't sign up for it. It's not your job. I'm asking anyway.

I'm sorry if this sounds dramatic, but the future of the American middle-class lies in your hands. Renouncing your own needs won't save it. Speaking up for yourself may not either, but it could help. When I started writing this, I was full of my usual righteous indignation. But now, I want to beg you. Please, please please. Think of the children. Consider their future. Metaphorically put on your own oxygen mask before you try to help them. I know you want them to advocate for themselves, to believe they're worthy of being fairly compensated for the work they do. So model it. Please.