I read Dave Cullen's book, "Columbine," months ago, but still feel passionately enough to write about it, and it seem appropriate for Tisha B'Av. "Columbine" is a remarkable, detailed account of the 1999 shootings at Columbine High School in Littleton, CO. Cullen painstakingly combs through mountains of legal minutia, forensic reports, mass media, and personal accounts of the attack. He weaves a narrative of the events of April 20, 1999, that manages to be both riveting and respectful at the same time. Two factors kick "Columbine" up a few notches and set it apart from any other accounts you will read about this tragedy.
First, Cullen proves that everything you think you know about Columbine is -- beyond a shadow of a doubt -- wrong. For example, you probably think the perpetrators set out to stage a school shooting. You're wrong. High school murderers Eric Harris, the charismatic ringleader, and Dylan Klebold, his flunky, had meticulously planned for several large bombs to go off and cause mass fatalities at the school. Thank God, Harris was inept in his bomb-making and they failed to detonate; the killers' plans for destruction quickly were downgraded to a school shooting only at this time. That was why Harris and Klebold had only a couple of guns on them for self-defense and ran out of ammo; school shooters would have needed to pack way more guns and ammunition. The irony of this is stunning: Cullen, who read both shooters diaries (in which they foreshadowed their mayhem), illustrates that Harris had incredible contempt for school shooters, whom he thought of as wusses. These guys were planning Armaggedon, and had their plans come through, thousands, not 13 people, would have been murdered.
Cullen also sensitively debunks most of the Columbine mythology, like the myth that Harris shot Cassie Bernall after asking her if she believed in God. Cullen uses recordings from the school library (audio from the four hour ordeal was recorded in its entirety), forensics, and victim testimony to prove that this exchange never happened. In fact, we know that Harris bent down and said only "peek-a-boo" before murdering Bernall. I give Cullen huge credit for pointing out this and other myths in ways that are honest, but also show great respect for the survivors' families. Setting the record straight in the Bernall case was especially delicate because her parents chose to publish the inspirational book "She Said Yes: The Unlikely Martyrdom of Cassie Bernall" even after Littleton police told the family that the encounter did not happen as reported.
This brings me to another point that makes "Columbine" amazing: Cullen's deconstruction of what factors collided that allowed myths to be created and perpetrated. Some of these were as innocuous as the fact that the emergency alarms beeped for all four hours, leaving people trapped in the school unable to hear and hampered by tinnitus and pain (oh yeah, and how about trauma?). Some of the myths were born out of the peculiar psychological quirks of the human brain that make eyewitness testimony so unreliable, like the brain's need to fill in gaps in information. Still other myths were born of police ineptitude -- the police were way out of their league and refused help from larger jurisdictions better able to handle an investigation of this magnitude. One of the biggest sources of false information was the role of the mass media during the shooting. Klebold and Harris had TVs on in the school during the attack and used information from newscasts to determine their actions. Simultaneously, students were calling in to the same TV programs on their cell phones giving real-time updates on the situation, only some of which were accurate. This dynamic set up many falsehoods that dominated the media for weeks.
The other thing that makes "Columbine" a stand-out book is Cullen's analysis of the root causes of the tragedy. He reveals the ugly truth that none of us wants to acknowledge: that this tragedy was not preventable. We can have our talk shows, cry, spend money on school security, blame Marilyn Manson (hey, because when is it not fashionable to blame musicians?), and even blame K-Mart and the NRA if you're Michael Moore, and it will not prevent another tragedy like Columbine from happening. I bought Cullen's conclusion entirely: Harris was an angry psychopath and magnetic leader. Contrary to what you heard, he had many friends and girlfriends. Harris found a co-conspirator in Klebold, a depressed, suicidal loser who followed Harris blindly and viewed him as his ticket out of a hellacious world. The combination of the two proved deadly. These boys were raised in good homes by loving, present parents. They wanted for nothing. On the contrary to having no self-esteem, Cullen makes a convincing case that Harris' narcissism was a major player in his psychopathy (it's worth it to look at David's post about the narcissism epidemic). Astoundingly, Cullen manages to pull all of this off without sounding patronizing or seeming like an armchair psychologist. This was a gripping, informative book that reads like fiction.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Time Stand Still
I am not a picture person. Other people snap photos of vacations and occasions to remember them, but when I take photos I am too focused on getting the shot instead of being in and savoring the moment I'm trying to capture. When I spend my time taking pictures -- which I'll never look at again -- I always regret it. My way of remembering is to form an imprint in my mind of the event I want to remember, and writing about it solidifies that memory. So, even though it happened a week ago, I need to write about last Thursday night. If anyone reads it, that's just gravy!
David and I went to pick up a Dustbuster that someone offered on Freecycle. I am trying to be more spontaneous and romantic, so I suggested that we visit a national monument since it was such a beautiful night. It was around 80 degrees and breezy following a day of brutal sun. We decided to head to the Jefferson Memorial, because neither of us had seen it in years and never together. And, let's just be honest, because Thomas Jefferson kicked serious ass.
Let me diverge for a second: I've never understood adults talking about summer unless they had kids or took regular summer vacations. The concept of "summer," as a season during which routines change, never made sense to me. I felt like I was missing something, at odds with a culture that reveres summer. Off the top of my head I can think of several songs that perpetuate this vision: "The Boys of Summer," "Summer Nights," "Summer Loving" from Grease, "Cruel Summer," and "Stone in Love," with its chorus, "Those summer nights are callin', stone in love, can't help myself I'm fallin' stone in love." When people asked me how my summer was going, I'd think, "The same as the other three seasons, only hotter." In fact, remember those magic pictures where you had to focus just right to see the hidden image? I feel like everyone else saw the image -- the iconic summer -- except me.
But there was something in the quality of last Thursday night, where I got it: a magical, balmy feeling, like we were living in an alternate reality. The reality of summer. The windows were down and we were headed down 16th Street, passing iconic D.C. architecture like the Mason's The House of the Temple. We heard one of the most beautiful modern songs that I've ever heard, Live's "Run to the Water." It has a melodic, flowing chorus and lyrics that can be interpreted as a profound religious experience or a profound relationship. Or more accurately, both, like the Song of Songs. If you are at all inclined to enjoy rock music, please do yourself a favor and spend 4 minutes listening to "Run to the Water" on YouTube or Grooveshark. Seriously, this song is so beautiful it makes me cry and get goosebumps.
So it was in this hazy, altered mood that we drove past the White House and toward the Tidal Basin to the Jefferson Memorial. It was a good 15 minute walk from the parking lot, and David and I enjoyed a conversation about what makes a monument work. At first I thought it was a "they just don't make 'em like they used to" kind of thing because I dislike the modern FDR Memorial so much, but David reminded me that the Air Force Memorial and the Vietnam Memorial are also modern, yet totally effective. We concluded that the single biggest predictor of whether a monument is effective is whether it picks a point of view and sticks with it. The FDR Memorial tries to be all things to all people, so it succeeds in touching no one (or more fairly, neither of us).
We got quiet as we walked up the steps to the memorial, stopping to turn around and have a clear view of the Washington Monument. My heart filled with gratitude and awe as I held hands with my beloved, and then looked at my beloved, adopted city -- the place I had planned to live (and be buried in) since I was 14 because it held such a magical sway over me. I looked across the Tidal Basin at the city and back up at the pantheon surrounding the bronze statue of Jefferson. At that moment I was completely in the moment and stupendously, ridiculously happy. I totally had a moment out of the iconic Rush song "Time Stand Still," a testament to mindfulness:
"Time stand still
I'm not looking back
But I want to look around me now
Time stand still
See more of the people and the places that surround me now
Freeze this moment a little bit longer
Make each sensation a little bit stronger
Experience slips away
Experience slips away"
David and I took our time at the memorial, exploring it from all angles, and listening to a tour by a Park Service ranger. Stealing a long kiss behind one of the columns seemed like the most natural thing to do, and a ranger even moved away to give us privacy after shooting me a "get a room" look. I assure you we were not inappropriate.
It was really late and we had to be up early the next morning, so we headed back to the car, but not before paying a visit to the George Mason memorial, which neither of us had ever heard of, let alone seen. We eased back into reality, laughingly, when an Iron Maiden song came on the radio. I don't know what made that summer night so remarkable and magical, but it was, and I loved it. I felt grateful to be alive, grateful to be with David, grateful to feel up to having that adventure that night, given the delicate nature of my health, and grateful to live in this remarkable city.
David and I went to pick up a Dustbuster that someone offered on Freecycle. I am trying to be more spontaneous and romantic, so I suggested that we visit a national monument since it was such a beautiful night. It was around 80 degrees and breezy following a day of brutal sun. We decided to head to the Jefferson Memorial, because neither of us had seen it in years and never together. And, let's just be honest, because Thomas Jefferson kicked serious ass.
Let me diverge for a second: I've never understood adults talking about summer unless they had kids or took regular summer vacations. The concept of "summer," as a season during which routines change, never made sense to me. I felt like I was missing something, at odds with a culture that reveres summer. Off the top of my head I can think of several songs that perpetuate this vision: "The Boys of Summer," "Summer Nights," "Summer Loving" from Grease, "Cruel Summer," and "Stone in Love," with its chorus, "Those summer nights are callin', stone in love, can't help myself I'm fallin' stone in love." When people asked me how my summer was going, I'd think, "The same as the other three seasons, only hotter." In fact, remember those magic pictures where you had to focus just right to see the hidden image? I feel like everyone else saw the image -- the iconic summer -- except me.
But there was something in the quality of last Thursday night, where I got it: a magical, balmy feeling, like we were living in an alternate reality. The reality of summer. The windows were down and we were headed down 16th Street, passing iconic D.C. architecture like the Mason's The House of the Temple. We heard one of the most beautiful modern songs that I've ever heard, Live's "Run to the Water." It has a melodic, flowing chorus and lyrics that can be interpreted as a profound religious experience or a profound relationship. Or more accurately, both, like the Song of Songs. If you are at all inclined to enjoy rock music, please do yourself a favor and spend 4 minutes listening to "Run to the Water" on YouTube or Grooveshark. Seriously, this song is so beautiful it makes me cry and get goosebumps.
So it was in this hazy, altered mood that we drove past the White House and toward the Tidal Basin to the Jefferson Memorial. It was a good 15 minute walk from the parking lot, and David and I enjoyed a conversation about what makes a monument work. At first I thought it was a "they just don't make 'em like they used to" kind of thing because I dislike the modern FDR Memorial so much, but David reminded me that the Air Force Memorial and the Vietnam Memorial are also modern, yet totally effective. We concluded that the single biggest predictor of whether a monument is effective is whether it picks a point of view and sticks with it. The FDR Memorial tries to be all things to all people, so it succeeds in touching no one (or more fairly, neither of us).
We got quiet as we walked up the steps to the memorial, stopping to turn around and have a clear view of the Washington Monument. My heart filled with gratitude and awe as I held hands with my beloved, and then looked at my beloved, adopted city -- the place I had planned to live (and be buried in) since I was 14 because it held such a magical sway over me. I looked across the Tidal Basin at the city and back up at the pantheon surrounding the bronze statue of Jefferson. At that moment I was completely in the moment and stupendously, ridiculously happy. I totally had a moment out of the iconic Rush song "Time Stand Still," a testament to mindfulness:
"Time stand still
I'm not looking back
But I want to look around me now
Time stand still
See more of the people and the places that surround me now
Freeze this moment a little bit longer
Make each sensation a little bit stronger
Experience slips away
Experience slips away"
David and I took our time at the memorial, exploring it from all angles, and listening to a tour by a Park Service ranger. Stealing a long kiss behind one of the columns seemed like the most natural thing to do, and a ranger even moved away to give us privacy after shooting me a "get a room" look. I assure you we were not inappropriate.
It was really late and we had to be up early the next morning, so we headed back to the car, but not before paying a visit to the George Mason memorial, which neither of us had ever heard of, let alone seen. We eased back into reality, laughingly, when an Iron Maiden song came on the radio. I don't know what made that summer night so remarkable and magical, but it was, and I loved it. I felt grateful to be alive, grateful to be with David, grateful to feel up to having that adventure that night, given the delicate nature of my health, and grateful to live in this remarkable city.
Bizarre Massage Triangle
I need a weekly massage to keep my neck and shoulders mobile; they and my arms are the primary places I still ache and have stiffness from my Lyme Disease. I have a fantastic massage therapist I see every Thursday, but circumstances conspired that made me miss two weeks of massage back to back, and I knew I couldn't go another week without body work. I decided to take a chance with a massage therapist I found on Yelp, my chief source of referrals. It's generally quite accurate, but fate had an adventure in mind.
I could tell right away that Katherine, the new massage therapist, was a little flaky. She handed me an intake form asking about basic health history. As I took it I said, "The primary information you need to know is that I have Lyme Disease." About seven feet away she started to look up Lyme on Wikipedia. "There's nothing in that entry that will help you with the work that we're about to do. I get a massage weekly, and I'm happy to tell you exactly how Lyme affects my bodywork and how we can make it a good session for both of us," I said. Katherine sat down to review the intake form and asked me where the car accident that I had a decade ago took place. Here's how the rest of that conversation went:
Me: "D.C."
Katherine: "Where in D.C.?"
Me: "Northwest."
Katherine: "What intersection?"
Me: "Why do you want to know?"
Katherine: "Because I like to ask my clients questions."
This struck me as very odd and unprofessional, but she topped the weird factor by asking me who hit me in the accident. "I think that's irrelevant and it was a long time ago," I said. By this point, I was definitely not feeling the love toward Katherine, but I was thinking, "I need the massage badly. I'll roll with it and not come back to this weirdo."
So it was a huge shock to me when she shook her head and declared, "You know, I don't think you're a good candidate for massage. There are other healing things you should be doing, but not this." Incredulous, I replied, "Massage is an essential part of my care plan. Like I said, I get one every week. In fact, I have a prescription from my pain doctor for massage so I get the expense reimbursed from my flexible spending account." I was dumbfounded. Katherine answered, "You also need to change your diet. Honey will help you."
Cue Alice Cooper's "No More Mr Nice Guy." I was astounded and thinking, "Do you know to whom you speak?" But what I said was: "Ok, Katherine. That is completely inappropriate. You know so little about Lyme that you were looking it up on Wikipedia five minutes ago, but now you know enough about it -- and about me -- to give me unsolicited nutritional advice? I don't see an R.D., L.N.D., M.D., N.D., or CHC after your name that would make you qualified to give such advice. And by the way, I've lost 109 pounds, largely because I don't eat sugar or honey. This is way over the line. Give me that intake form back; I don't trust you with my personal information." To my great credit, I said this without yelling, cussing, threatening, or calling Katherine any of the adjectives and nouns I was thinking about her. I wish I had remembered to tell her that the bacteria that causes Lyme actually thrives in sugar.
"Fuck," I thought as I left. "I really need a massage. What am I going to do?" I cursed that I didn't have an iPhone for Internet access, and called the only place in the area that I knew had a massage therapist, NustaSpa. I asked if they could take a walk-in, and they could. It wasn't ideal, because I need a therapeutic massage more than a spa-like massage, but it was better than nothing. NustaSpa was gorgeous and I decided that since I was paying a fortune for a sub-par massage, I would eat it up and enjoy the spa experience. My mindfulness practice became very helpful because every time my brain slipped back into "#@#! Katherine," I could say, "Ok, focus on what Ileyna is doing to you now, in this moment." Rinse and repeat about 10 times.
The massage saga had an interesting end: I was going to call Katherine's boss the next day, but she beat me to it and called me back the night of the breakdown. She was extremely apologetic and mortified, and offered me a complementary session with her head massage therapist. I saw him Monday and he was pretty good and very pleasant, but I can't wait to get back to see Gail, my massage therapist today. I usually hug her when I leave her office, but today I think I'll hug her when I see her.
I could tell right away that Katherine, the new massage therapist, was a little flaky. She handed me an intake form asking about basic health history. As I took it I said, "The primary information you need to know is that I have Lyme Disease." About seven feet away she started to look up Lyme on Wikipedia. "There's nothing in that entry that will help you with the work that we're about to do. I get a massage weekly, and I'm happy to tell you exactly how Lyme affects my bodywork and how we can make it a good session for both of us," I said. Katherine sat down to review the intake form and asked me where the car accident that I had a decade ago took place. Here's how the rest of that conversation went:
Me: "D.C."
Katherine: "Where in D.C.?"
Me: "Northwest."
Katherine: "What intersection?"
Me: "Why do you want to know?"
Katherine: "Because I like to ask my clients questions."
This struck me as very odd and unprofessional, but she topped the weird factor by asking me who hit me in the accident. "I think that's irrelevant and it was a long time ago," I said. By this point, I was definitely not feeling the love toward Katherine, but I was thinking, "I need the massage badly. I'll roll with it and not come back to this weirdo."
So it was a huge shock to me when she shook her head and declared, "You know, I don't think you're a good candidate for massage. There are other healing things you should be doing, but not this." Incredulous, I replied, "Massage is an essential part of my care plan. Like I said, I get one every week. In fact, I have a prescription from my pain doctor for massage so I get the expense reimbursed from my flexible spending account." I was dumbfounded. Katherine answered, "You also need to change your diet. Honey will help you."
Cue Alice Cooper's "No More Mr Nice Guy." I was astounded and thinking, "Do you know to whom you speak?" But what I said was: "Ok, Katherine. That is completely inappropriate. You know so little about Lyme that you were looking it up on Wikipedia five minutes ago, but now you know enough about it -- and about me -- to give me unsolicited nutritional advice? I don't see an R.D., L.N.D., M.D., N.D., or CHC after your name that would make you qualified to give such advice. And by the way, I've lost 109 pounds, largely because I don't eat sugar or honey. This is way over the line. Give me that intake form back; I don't trust you with my personal information." To my great credit, I said this without yelling, cussing, threatening, or calling Katherine any of the adjectives and nouns I was thinking about her. I wish I had remembered to tell her that the bacteria that causes Lyme actually thrives in sugar.
"Fuck," I thought as I left. "I really need a massage. What am I going to do?" I cursed that I didn't have an iPhone for Internet access, and called the only place in the area that I knew had a massage therapist, NustaSpa. I asked if they could take a walk-in, and they could. It wasn't ideal, because I need a therapeutic massage more than a spa-like massage, but it was better than nothing. NustaSpa was gorgeous and I decided that since I was paying a fortune for a sub-par massage, I would eat it up and enjoy the spa experience. My mindfulness practice became very helpful because every time my brain slipped back into "#@#! Katherine," I could say, "Ok, focus on what Ileyna is doing to you now, in this moment." Rinse and repeat about 10 times.
The massage saga had an interesting end: I was going to call Katherine's boss the next day, but she beat me to it and called me back the night of the breakdown. She was extremely apologetic and mortified, and offered me a complementary session with her head massage therapist. I saw him Monday and he was pretty good and very pleasant, but I can't wait to get back to see Gail, my massage therapist today. I usually hug her when I leave her office, but today I think I'll hug her when I see her.
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Book Review: "And Falling, Fly"
And Falling, Fly by Skyler WhiteMy rating: 2 of 5 stars I have very mixed feelings about this book that I randomly picked up in the library. On the one hand, it explored some interesting questions about mental health and the stories we tell ourselves about ourselves. On the other hand, it is very pretentious and preachy. The pinnacle of this is a conversation in the Garden of Eden between the snake and the lead male character, Dominic. The snake says that he has already had an apple before tossing one to hungry Dominic. "But I have seen people chewing different fruit from the same damn branch fly planes into buildings secure in what they ingested here." Oh, puleeeze! Seriously? White takes several other thinly-veiled shots at religion and believers throughout the novel.
Another strike against "And Falling, Fly" is that it is quite confusing; I'm still not entirely sure what the precise connection is between Olivia, the main female character -- literally the fallen angel of desire and a vampire -- and the godchild of philanthropist Madeline Wright. Likewise, the book hints that Gaehod, who runs the L'Otel Matillde in what is supposed to be hell, is Satan, but we never really find out.
The book has lots of explicit sex, but none of it is titillating, in part because the entire book is so cheesy and over-the-top. For example, we learn that Olivia's vagina, once stone, magically becomes fully functional with the right partner. Author Skyler White also frequently refers to this organ as "her sex," which I find pretty distasteful. Seriously, there are a few slang words that come to mind that I think are a lot better than "sex" used in this context. This is a big pet peeve of mine.
I rolled my eyes through the whole book, but it must be a success to some degree since I felt compelled to keep reading. Dominic's neuropsychology work held my interest most closely, and I was curious if Olivia would find "her loophole," the thing that might end her torment and allow her to escape the unsatisfying life of a fallen angel.
This is White's debut novel, and I'd urge her to tone down the preaching in her next endeavor.
View all my reviews >>
Monday, July 5, 2010
Team Jacob
If there was any doubt about my loyalties, I am Team Jacob all the way. I finally made it to "Eclipse" last night with my sister-in-law, Jannie. Many film critics have declared it the best of the Twilight Saga movies so far, and I think I agree: it didn't change Bella's sulky character, but did a better job balancing it with other more interesting, animated characters. Like Jacob. And Jacob. Jasper's character got a lot more developed as he trained the Cullen clan to fight the newborn vampire army, and at moments, he even lost that deer-in-the-headlights look. Dakota Fanning was great as creepy Jane.
To me, the case for Jacob is very clear: Bella wouldn't have to undergo an excruciating process to become immortal that will isolate her from her family for decades [disclosure: Edward discourages Bella's desire to be turned vampire, but that clearly is a condition of their relationship on her part because she doesn't want to age while Edward stays perfect at 18. I guess plastic surgery, laser and Botox won't cut it]. Jacob is warm-blooded, not frigid; Jacob can make love to Bella with abandon without having to worry about literally tearing her apart; and Jacob is far more industrious and way less creepy. And let's not forget that Jacob is way hotter than Edward, who looks like Cedric Diggory who smoked some skanky weed.
I understand that there would not be a Twilight phenom if Bella chose Edward over Jacob, and it would dramatically change an important part of the last book and last two movies, but I can't help but sit there and think, "Go for Jacob!" I realized for the first time last night that Edward v. Jacob is really the fight between the privileged upper class and the salt-of-the-earth working man. Looking at the Cullen's ultra-sleek house and luxury cars, they're a stark contrast to Jacob's exposed studs on his bedroom walls and refurbished motorcycles.
Another thing that struck me last night: Stephenie Meyer, a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, which is vested in a very traditional family structure, makes one of the best cases for polyamorism that I've seen in mass media. This comes through in the "Eclipse" novel, but is particularly glaring in the film, where Bella clearly has romantic love for both Jacob and Edward. She admits to herself and to the guys. "Nu? Go for it!" I thought. Unfortunately, our culture makes her choose, when -- assuming Edward and Jacob didn't otherwise detest each other -- they could've lived as a happy poly family. Of course, one reason that monogamy has won out in most circumstances is that it rarely does end up being a happy family; it's one of those ideas that sounds better than it actually is, according to reliable sources. Ah, but that's another blog post. I wonder how many other people thought of the "Eclipse" poly angle. Then again, I am the girl who thought of sending an email to True Blood's producers begging for a Sookie, Eric, and Bill three-way. When I thought through the plot ramifications, I ditched the idea.
To me, the case for Jacob is very clear: Bella wouldn't have to undergo an excruciating process to become immortal that will isolate her from her family for decades [disclosure: Edward discourages Bella's desire to be turned vampire, but that clearly is a condition of their relationship on her part because she doesn't want to age while Edward stays perfect at 18. I guess plastic surgery, laser and Botox won't cut it]. Jacob is warm-blooded, not frigid; Jacob can make love to Bella with abandon without having to worry about literally tearing her apart; and Jacob is far more industrious and way less creepy. And let's not forget that Jacob is way hotter than Edward, who looks like Cedric Diggory who smoked some skanky weed.
I understand that there would not be a Twilight phenom if Bella chose Edward over Jacob, and it would dramatically change an important part of the last book and last two movies, but I can't help but sit there and think, "Go for Jacob!" I realized for the first time last night that Edward v. Jacob is really the fight between the privileged upper class and the salt-of-the-earth working man. Looking at the Cullen's ultra-sleek house and luxury cars, they're a stark contrast to Jacob's exposed studs on his bedroom walls and refurbished motorcycles.
Another thing that struck me last night: Stephenie Meyer, a member of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, which is vested in a very traditional family structure, makes one of the best cases for polyamorism that I've seen in mass media. This comes through in the "Eclipse" novel, but is particularly glaring in the film, where Bella clearly has romantic love for both Jacob and Edward. She admits to herself and to the guys. "Nu? Go for it!" I thought. Unfortunately, our culture makes her choose, when -- assuming Edward and Jacob didn't otherwise detest each other -- they could've lived as a happy poly family. Of course, one reason that monogamy has won out in most circumstances is that it rarely does end up being a happy family; it's one of those ideas that sounds better than it actually is, according to reliable sources. Ah, but that's another blog post. I wonder how many other people thought of the "Eclipse" poly angle. Then again, I am the girl who thought of sending an email to True Blood's producers begging for a Sookie, Eric, and Bill three-way. When I thought through the plot ramifications, I ditched the idea.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Beshert
Last weekend, David and I accidentally ended up watching an indie movie called "The Timer" that really struck me. The story takes place in the near-future, but half the population has a timer device implanted on the inside of their wrists that starts counting down to the days when they're going to meet "The One" -- Mr. or Ms. Right, soulmate, beshert (Hebrew word referring to your intended -- your One), whatever you want to call it. In the make-believe science of the film, the timer works by reading levels of oxytocin output. When you and your intended make eye contact for the first time, your timer beeps, so you know your match.
"The Timer" follows 30-something year-old Oona in her desperate quest to meet her One. Along the way, she ends up falling for a grocery clerk. What ensues leads to a movie that is original, entertaining, and yet, profound. The film explores the societal consequences of the device, including:
*What happens when a 13 year-old (the youngest age at which you can get a timer implanted) meets his One when he is that young? How does it impact the families of both kids?
* Is being alone worse than being with the "wrong" person?
* Can we ever be sure about love? What do we do when our hearts and our heads conflict?
* What do you do when you're waiting for your One? Enjoy random hook-ups at will? Stop hooking up? Hook up, but only a couple of times, since you know it's a dead end?
About 10 minutes into "The Timer," I couldn't help but notice the parallels between Oona's desperation and the straits that many Orthodox Jewish singles find themselves in. I don't think this is a phenomenon unique to Judaism, but I think it is very pronounced in the Jewish community, where family is given the highest priority and young people worry about meeting quality Jewish singles past their mid-twenties. In this paradigm, people lose themselves in their quests to find another. They mistakenly think life will begin or that problems will disappear when they meet their partner. Instead of looking inward, they look to external sources like Rabbis, educators, or shadchanim (matchmakers) to validate that another person is their beshert.
Few people stop to consider the implications of the term beshert anyway. It implies that there is just one other person on this planet, which I just don't believe. I think it's more like there's Mr./Ms. Right Now instead of Mr./Ms. Right. If there is only one person for everyone, how do we explain happily married divorcees and widows? I saw how much this beshert concept falls short when I introduced my husband to a childhood BFF of mine. They were so alike (same geeky, obscure books on the shelf and everything), and got along so well, I sat there and thought, "If I weren't married to David, I'd set these two up!" It was a little surreal.
Back to "The Timer." The movie was a good reminder that many paths lead to happiness; there is not one way to travel life any more than there is one beshert for you in life. Different paths lead to different outcomes, but they can all be happy outcomes. I find that both liberating and scary, and I hope I can recall this when I am trying hard to make the "right" choice in a situation, fearful of choosing the wrong path.
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Turning Tide
I'm sorry I haven't posted in a while; I felt really crummy all last week, and I had a lot to catch up on before I could blog, like finishing my second application for disability through Social Security (that's a whole other post). I have a third segment to write about my emotional recovery in OA-H.O.W., but I feel like there's a more timely and urgent matter that I want to write about: what I see as a gradual increase in socially acceptable anti-Semitism.
I grew up in Memphis, Tenn. -- not the most progressive city on the continent -- but felt quite sheltered from any anti-Semitism. I heard of the yeshiva bochurs [male students at a Jewish school] on their way home from synagogue one Friday night being beaten by a gang of thugs just because they were Jewish. The worst thing I ever experienced was some redneck yelling something derogatory out his truck window when I was walking to synagogue. Thankfully, I considered myself very sheltered from anti-Semitism. I'm not one to see things in that light, anyway. Whenever I encountered some difficult person, my great aunt Bettye would say, "Maybe s/he is anti-Semitic," as if this was the most rational explanation for their behavior, as opposed to having a bad day, not liking me because I was a twit, etc. I found her response slightly amusing, a holdover from the unenlightened World War II era she grew up in.
Two big news events this week have put chinks in my armor that lets me rest safely in the delusion that anti-Semitism is uncommon and certainly not socially acceptable. Most recently, the Helen Thomas incident, in which the White House correspondent said that Jews should "get the hell out of Palestine" and go "home" to Germany and Poland. Right, cuz that worked so well after WWII when Jews were greeted with pogroms and mobs to celebrate their homecoming to those countries. Apparently, Thomas' feelings about Israel were well known to conservatives reading different media than I do; I had never encountered this side of her personality, partly because she's been pretty irrelevant as a news correspondent for the past decade or so, and partly because the Liberal media I consume never said a word against her. In fact, Thomas' remarks cited above only garnered mainstream attention when she resigned as a result of the reaction to her comments. I dreaded the inevitable apologist letters that were printed in "The Washington Post."
This would be a good place to state that I have no illusions that Israel is saintly or blameless when it comes to handling Palestinians or anything else. It's tough to be civil to a population that considers your destruction a religious mandate, and there are many situations where I think, "That was crummy; the Israeli government could've handled that better."
The second thing that has raised my anti-Semitism antennae, is, of course, the flotilla fiasco [If you'd like to see a video summarizing the event, click here. Disclaimer: the music on this clip sucks beyond belief, so mute your speakers.] It has been painful to watch the public and the media buy this charade hook, line, and sinker. The flotilla organizers (a radical Islamist group suspected of terrorist activity and known to fund Hamas) staged this to deliberately provoke and antagonize Israel. When the media descriptions of this vessel said things like it was "carrying humanitarian aid," I knew it was bad; I watched a video depicting the content of the flotilla, and last I heard, bombs, knives, sharpened sticks, and TNT were not humanitarian aid. Granted, there were humanitarian items on the boat, which Israel astoundingly still delivered to Gaza. This blows my mind. I can't spend all night debunking the numerous pieces of misleading propaganda about the flotilla that dominate the mainstream media, but you should educate yourself, perhaps starting with the links above. Seeing the jaded, misinformed descriptions what happened on the flotilla is depressing, and definitely contribute to my feelings that anti-Semitism is on the rise in mainstream America. And then I read Charles Krauthammer's column last week, "Those Troublesome Jews," and it hit me hard.
As if I needed any more ammunition, I found the unedited version of an intro to the "I.S.R.A.E.L. Attack" video game on the Comedy Central Web site, which began, "You lied to me, Jew producer!" The acronym stands for Intelligent Smart Robot Animation Eraser Lady. And this from the network that pussed out over depictions of Muhammad. The fact that Comedy Central incessantly pisses on Christians is the only thing that makes me think that the video game is part of their general irreverence as opposed to a specific attack on Jews or Judaism.
I can definitely get scared and paranoid, so I asked two very optimistic, rational, grounded people if my instincts about the upswing in anti-Semitism were off-base, and both confirmed what I've been feeling. I see a situation developing in which anyone who defends Israel's right to exist and right to protect and defend itself (which includes things like enforcing blockades, which are totally legal, btw), will soon be branded intolerant and ass-backwards. We've definitely seen this in the Washington, D.C., area, where anyone who objects to gay marriage is automatically labeled a "homophobe" or "hate-monger." As enthused as I am personally about the recent legalization of gay unions here, I still understand some people's objections to it, and I think they have the right to feel that way and civilly express their opinions without others assuming hateful things, or calling them names.
I had a friend who believed that Jews needed to always keep updated passports close at hand so they could flee America when its good graces ran out. I found that shocking then, and I don't want to believe it now, but I can see that he's onto something. One important lesson that I've taken from the last couple of weeks is that I need to make a serious effort to vary my media. Getting all of my news from "The Washington Post," is very limiting. I don't need to read conservative or libertarian blogs every day, but I need to check in a few times a week to keep some perspective, and check some facts.
It took me two days to write this post.
I grew up in Memphis, Tenn. -- not the most progressive city on the continent -- but felt quite sheltered from any anti-Semitism. I heard of the yeshiva bochurs [male students at a Jewish school] on their way home from synagogue one Friday night being beaten by a gang of thugs just because they were Jewish. The worst thing I ever experienced was some redneck yelling something derogatory out his truck window when I was walking to synagogue. Thankfully, I considered myself very sheltered from anti-Semitism. I'm not one to see things in that light, anyway. Whenever I encountered some difficult person, my great aunt Bettye would say, "Maybe s/he is anti-Semitic," as if this was the most rational explanation for their behavior, as opposed to having a bad day, not liking me because I was a twit, etc. I found her response slightly amusing, a holdover from the unenlightened World War II era she grew up in.
Two big news events this week have put chinks in my armor that lets me rest safely in the delusion that anti-Semitism is uncommon and certainly not socially acceptable. Most recently, the Helen Thomas incident, in which the White House correspondent said that Jews should "get the hell out of Palestine" and go "home" to Germany and Poland. Right, cuz that worked so well after WWII when Jews were greeted with pogroms and mobs to celebrate their homecoming to those countries. Apparently, Thomas' feelings about Israel were well known to conservatives reading different media than I do; I had never encountered this side of her personality, partly because she's been pretty irrelevant as a news correspondent for the past decade or so, and partly because the Liberal media I consume never said a word against her. In fact, Thomas' remarks cited above only garnered mainstream attention when she resigned as a result of the reaction to her comments. I dreaded the inevitable apologist letters that were printed in "The Washington Post."
This would be a good place to state that I have no illusions that Israel is saintly or blameless when it comes to handling Palestinians or anything else. It's tough to be civil to a population that considers your destruction a religious mandate, and there are many situations where I think, "That was crummy; the Israeli government could've handled that better."
The second thing that has raised my anti-Semitism antennae, is, of course, the flotilla fiasco [If you'd like to see a video summarizing the event, click here. Disclaimer: the music on this clip sucks beyond belief, so mute your speakers.] It has been painful to watch the public and the media buy this charade hook, line, and sinker. The flotilla organizers (a radical Islamist group suspected of terrorist activity and known to fund Hamas) staged this to deliberately provoke and antagonize Israel. When the media descriptions of this vessel said things like it was "carrying humanitarian aid," I knew it was bad; I watched a video depicting the content of the flotilla, and last I heard, bombs, knives, sharpened sticks, and TNT were not humanitarian aid. Granted, there were humanitarian items on the boat, which Israel astoundingly still delivered to Gaza. This blows my mind. I can't spend all night debunking the numerous pieces of misleading propaganda about the flotilla that dominate the mainstream media, but you should educate yourself, perhaps starting with the links above. Seeing the jaded, misinformed descriptions what happened on the flotilla is depressing, and definitely contribute to my feelings that anti-Semitism is on the rise in mainstream America. And then I read Charles Krauthammer's column last week, "Those Troublesome Jews," and it hit me hard.
As if I needed any more ammunition, I found the unedited version of an intro to the "I.S.R.A.E.L. Attack" video game on the Comedy Central Web site, which began, "You lied to me, Jew producer!" The acronym stands for Intelligent Smart Robot Animation Eraser Lady. And this from the network that pussed out over depictions of Muhammad. The fact that Comedy Central incessantly pisses on Christians is the only thing that makes me think that the video game is part of their general irreverence as opposed to a specific attack on Jews or Judaism.
I can definitely get scared and paranoid, so I asked two very optimistic, rational, grounded people if my instincts about the upswing in anti-Semitism were off-base, and both confirmed what I've been feeling. I see a situation developing in which anyone who defends Israel's right to exist and right to protect and defend itself (which includes things like enforcing blockades, which are totally legal, btw), will soon be branded intolerant and ass-backwards. We've definitely seen this in the Washington, D.C., area, where anyone who objects to gay marriage is automatically labeled a "homophobe" or "hate-monger." As enthused as I am personally about the recent legalization of gay unions here, I still understand some people's objections to it, and I think they have the right to feel that way and civilly express their opinions without others assuming hateful things, or calling them names.
I had a friend who believed that Jews needed to always keep updated passports close at hand so they could flee America when its good graces ran out. I found that shocking then, and I don't want to believe it now, but I can see that he's onto something. One important lesson that I've taken from the last couple of weeks is that I need to make a serious effort to vary my media. Getting all of my news from "The Washington Post," is very limiting. I don't need to read conservative or libertarian blogs every day, but I need to check in a few times a week to keep some perspective, and check some facts.
It took me two days to write this post.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)