Last December, Dani Shapiro reviewed "Poser," Claire Dederer's memoir of regaining her life through yoga, for the New York Times's Sunday Book Review. I have not read the book but plan to if only to tease out for myself what is tongue-in-cheek and what is earnest. For instance, this paragraph (from Shapiro's review; italics mine):
“We were a generation of hollow-eyed women, chasing virtue,” she tells us. “We, the mothers of North Seattle, were consumed with trying to do everything right.” North Seattle — a first cousin of Park Slope, the Upper West Side, Berkeley and dozens of other such enclaves around the country — was a place where attachment parenting was all the rage. Kids weren’t weaned until they spoke in full sentences. Families all slept in the same bed; ate the same organic, locally produced food; and lived in an enriching environment safe from the dangers of plastic toys and disposable diapers.
Is Dederer making fun of the idea that all mothers in one section of a city could be monolithic? Or is she subscribing to that very idea? Furthermore, is Shapiro echoing Dederer when she lumps North Seattle in with other stereotyped areas - or is this her own take on the situation? The word "affluence" never appears in this paragraph. But it doesn't have to.
Homonyms are words that look and sound the same but have different meanings. The phenomenon I want a name for today is the sense of dislocation one feels when one encounters an unexpected homonym; North Seattle, in the quotation from the book and in the review, is that for me. The North Seattle I know does encompass the wide-stroller-wielding, latte-sipping women of Dederer's Green Lake. But it also includes the mom headed to the new DSHS offices at North Seattle Community College for food or work assistance and the women, some mothers themselves, caring for a gaggle of preschoolers, many of whom have mothers who must go to work, at Lake City library's story time.
Satirical or earnest, my hope for "Poser" is that it doesn't commit the sin of omission, of erasing those other mothers of North Seattle. I'll report back after I've read the book.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Monday, June 20, 2011
Once an Obit Writer...
At a restaurant during a recent family visit, my mother looked up from her salmon and said to me, "Maybe you should write my obituary."
"Mom," I said quickly, with a sternness that surprised me, "I don't want to talk about this now."
What brought this on? Not a known illness or the impending hereditary likelihood of one, but a conversation she'd had a week before with friends of a similar age (early to late-60s). My brother saved the moment by chiming in, "The headline could be 'Moderate Drinker Says Farewell.'"
We all laughed. "How do you remember that?" my mom asked him. It was the title of her last column for The Minot Daily News before we moved across the country when I was 7.
My mother wasn't that off base in asking me to write her obit; it was my first job, after all. When I was 17 and a senior in high school, I wrote obituaries on Sundays for a Connecticut newspaper. When I told her about my job, my best friend Sam said, not unkindly, "It sounds depressing." In contrast, she had a gig cleaning up our school's hardly-mobbed plaster cast museum. "It's the definition of 'sinecure,'" she joked. (Some of our friends were unabashed history or physics nerds; we were English nerds).
Obit writing could be depressing, but most of the time it was just fascinating to peer into - and arrange on a page - one version of the story of a person's life. And most of the time the departed were old enough that, from the perspective of a teenager, their deaths seemed timely; I remember a lot of WWII veterans.
Maybe it's the residual effect of losing two close friends, one of them Sam, by the time I was 23, but sometimes phrases for an obit or eulogy pop into my head. I'll be getting ready for work, and all of a sudden I'll think of something I want to say or write for a still-living friend or family member. The surprise - and depressing element - of the moment, like when my mother turned to me at dinner, makes me want to shake it off. But then I try to fight that reflex: as long as I don't dwell too long in farewell mode, it's good to pay attention. It's never too early for appreciation.
"Mom," I said quickly, with a sternness that surprised me, "I don't want to talk about this now."
What brought this on? Not a known illness or the impending hereditary likelihood of one, but a conversation she'd had a week before with friends of a similar age (early to late-60s). My brother saved the moment by chiming in, "The headline could be 'Moderate Drinker Says Farewell.'"
We all laughed. "How do you remember that?" my mom asked him. It was the title of her last column for The Minot Daily News before we moved across the country when I was 7.
My mother wasn't that off base in asking me to write her obit; it was my first job, after all. When I was 17 and a senior in high school, I wrote obituaries on Sundays for a Connecticut newspaper. When I told her about my job, my best friend Sam said, not unkindly, "It sounds depressing." In contrast, she had a gig cleaning up our school's hardly-mobbed plaster cast museum. "It's the definition of 'sinecure,'" she joked. (Some of our friends were unabashed history or physics nerds; we were English nerds).
Obit writing could be depressing, but most of the time it was just fascinating to peer into - and arrange on a page - one version of the story of a person's life. And most of the time the departed were old enough that, from the perspective of a teenager, their deaths seemed timely; I remember a lot of WWII veterans.
Maybe it's the residual effect of losing two close friends, one of them Sam, by the time I was 23, but sometimes phrases for an obit or eulogy pop into my head. I'll be getting ready for work, and all of a sudden I'll think of something I want to say or write for a still-living friend or family member. The surprise - and depressing element - of the moment, like when my mother turned to me at dinner, makes me want to shake it off. But then I try to fight that reflex: as long as I don't dwell too long in farewell mode, it's good to pay attention. It's never too early for appreciation.
Monday, June 13, 2011
Iowa Imposter
Today I wore my IOWA t-shirt, a gift from a friend who grew up there and knows without being told that the black and gold of my shirt are Hawkeyes' colors. As I neared the hub that is my local post office, an elderly gentleman walking past me said, "Go Iowa!"
"What?" I called back, not sure if I'd heard him correctly.
"I grew up in Nebraska," he explained, "right next to Iowa."
"Nice!" I said, because I like pleasant interactions with fellow pedestrians even when they turn into unsolicited educational moments, and turned back toward the post office.
This conversation was another example of quietly letting someone - usually a stranger, usually during what promises to be only a brief exchange - assume something about you that you know to be incorrect. I was born in North Dakota, grew up in Connecticut, went to college in Illinois, and have lived in Washington for almost 10 years; I've barely even visited Iowa. But I didn't yell this to the man in front of the post office; I let him believe that we were former state-neighbors.
Nannies and babysitters have a lot of these moments, and the challenge is in deciding when to tell that complimentary or chummy mom on the playground that this kid? Not mine. Sometimes it's clear-cut, as when a woman trailing behind me and a toddler-age charge announced, as we all entered the bathroom of a fancy restaurant, "These years go by so fast! Mine are teenagers now."
I smiled and said, "I'm the babysitter," and that was that. But other times it's not so clear what anyone is thinking, and it can feel awkward to halt the flow of a conversation to vocalize a distinction that might change everything - or, conversely, nothing - for the other person.
The best-worst example of this for me was on a playground two years ago. I was hovering near the little girl I nannied for, and a woman said, "I love her haircut."
"Yeah," I agreed. "Her mother did a great job."
"Her mother?" the woman asked, clearly confused. "You're not her mother?"
"No, I'm her nanny," I said, in a tone I hoped sounded cheerful.
"But you're so good with her!" the woman exclaimed.
Well. You can be good to a kid without being his or her parent. And strangers - and even family and friends - don't need to know everything about you. Go Hawkeyes!
"What?" I called back, not sure if I'd heard him correctly.
"I grew up in Nebraska," he explained, "right next to Iowa."
"Nice!" I said, because I like pleasant interactions with fellow pedestrians even when they turn into unsolicited educational moments, and turned back toward the post office.
This conversation was another example of quietly letting someone - usually a stranger, usually during what promises to be only a brief exchange - assume something about you that you know to be incorrect. I was born in North Dakota, grew up in Connecticut, went to college in Illinois, and have lived in Washington for almost 10 years; I've barely even visited Iowa. But I didn't yell this to the man in front of the post office; I let him believe that we were former state-neighbors.
Nannies and babysitters have a lot of these moments, and the challenge is in deciding when to tell that complimentary or chummy mom on the playground that this kid? Not mine. Sometimes it's clear-cut, as when a woman trailing behind me and a toddler-age charge announced, as we all entered the bathroom of a fancy restaurant, "These years go by so fast! Mine are teenagers now."
I smiled and said, "I'm the babysitter," and that was that. But other times it's not so clear what anyone is thinking, and it can feel awkward to halt the flow of a conversation to vocalize a distinction that might change everything - or, conversely, nothing - for the other person.
The best-worst example of this for me was on a playground two years ago. I was hovering near the little girl I nannied for, and a woman said, "I love her haircut."
"Yeah," I agreed. "Her mother did a great job."
"Her mother?" the woman asked, clearly confused. "You're not her mother?"
"No, I'm her nanny," I said, in a tone I hoped sounded cheerful.
"But you're so good with her!" the woman exclaimed.
Well. You can be good to a kid without being his or her parent. And strangers - and even family and friends - don't need to know everything about you. Go Hawkeyes!
Tuesday, June 7, 2011
Tornadoes and Census Figures
My friend Sasha and her husband live in Springfield, MA, the site of recent freak tornadoes. They are both fine; while their building was heavily damaged in places, they got lucky: other than broken windows and lots of dust and dirt, their apartment is OK.
Like many people, I have friends in pockets around the country, and the world feels especially small when headline news happens to one of their regions.
But are other forces making our world larger? The percentage of people moving to other counties is at its lowest since 1947, a fact that is largely attributed to the recession. So if the economy doesn't improve significantly over the next few years, I wonder if our lowered mobility will lead to a collective personal lessening of these small-world feelings? Or will the pace of social networking overshadow any physical-world limitations?
Like many people, I have friends in pockets around the country, and the world feels especially small when headline news happens to one of their regions.
But are other forces making our world larger? The percentage of people moving to other counties is at its lowest since 1947, a fact that is largely attributed to the recession. So if the economy doesn't improve significantly over the next few years, I wonder if our lowered mobility will lead to a collective personal lessening of these small-world feelings? Or will the pace of social networking overshadow any physical-world limitations?
Sunday, May 29, 2011
The Great Nanny Crop-Out
Babysitting the other night, after the tyke fell asleep I leafed through two celebrity-focused magazines belonging to the mom. Each had a photo that struck me as surprisingly creepy: in one, Heidi Klum, her kids, and another woman are walking down a street. But the woman, who trails the others, has her head neatly covered...by a box of text. In the second, Sarah Jessica Parker is described as walking with her twins. But she holds the hand of only one; the other is holding hands with a woman who walks behind the actress, and while most of the woman's face is obscured by Parker's head, she looks into the camera with her left eye.
The editors' choice to crop out nannies from celebrity photographs - and for many celebrity moms to present their lives as child care-free - has been written about well in other places. What interests me is the pervasive psychology of breezily commenting on the famous person's every move while not acknowledging the visible presence of the woman in the background.
A head eclipsed by words, a lone, staring eye: these would be strange (or comical) editing choices in any publication. But in a celebrity magazine, where all that matters is the famous person, the nanny (or other accidentally photographed staff) is viewed as so inconsequential that hastily or mostly cropping her out is considered good enough. Who's looking at her anyway?
The editors' choice to crop out nannies from celebrity photographs - and for many celebrity moms to present their lives as child care-free - has been written about well in other places. What interests me is the pervasive psychology of breezily commenting on the famous person's every move while not acknowledging the visible presence of the woman in the background.
A head eclipsed by words, a lone, staring eye: these would be strange (or comical) editing choices in any publication. But in a celebrity magazine, where all that matters is the famous person, the nanny (or other accidentally photographed staff) is viewed as so inconsequential that hastily or mostly cropping her out is considered good enough. Who's looking at her anyway?
Thursday, May 26, 2011
If You Don't Like This Word...
I get together with friends every two weeks to talk about art: pieces we're working on, questions we're grappling with, etc. Last night, one of my friends told us that he's reading Julia Cameron's The Artist's Way but that he was initially uncertain if he would read it because the word "God" is used frequently, and he wasn't sure if he was comfortable with that. He decided to keep going after reading the introduction; in it, Cameron suggests that people uncomfortable with "God" substitute any other word that means creative spirit or force.
I heard similar instructions a few years ago when attending someone's exit interview from in-patient rehab. I asked the counselor essentially, "How are they supposed to go to AA if they don't believe in God?" I was told that it could stand for "Good Orderly Direction" and that AA is a spiritual, not religious, organization.
Sometimes pushing past or reconfiguring meanings in order to learn skills or receive larger messages is understandable. Sometimes re-framing the debate makes politics clearer (or at least more entrenched)! And I don't want to dismiss the power of groups reclaiming names that previously were only uttered as invective. Language is amazing, people! But when other than with "God" do we need such thorough contextualizing and explaining for a broader way of seeing, whether it's Cameron's creative force, Alice Walker's ecospirituality, or many Unitarian Universalist sermons? When else are we told, "Oh, just think of another word for that"?
I heard similar instructions a few years ago when attending someone's exit interview from in-patient rehab. I asked the counselor essentially, "How are they supposed to go to AA if they don't believe in God?" I was told that it could stand for "Good Orderly Direction" and that AA is a spiritual, not religious, organization.
Sometimes pushing past or reconfiguring meanings in order to learn skills or receive larger messages is understandable. Sometimes re-framing the debate makes politics clearer (or at least more entrenched)! And I don't want to dismiss the power of groups reclaiming names that previously were only uttered as invective. Language is amazing, people! But when other than with "God" do we need such thorough contextualizing and explaining for a broader way of seeing, whether it's Cameron's creative force, Alice Walker's ecospirituality, or many Unitarian Universalist sermons? When else are we told, "Oh, just think of another word for that"?
Saturday, May 21, 2011
What's in a Religious Name?
I attend University Unitarian Church and have been doing so since 2002. I was not raised UU, and my comfort with labeling myself a UU has varied over the years. One of UU's guiding principles is the "free and responsible search for truth and meaning," and, well, sometimes it seems like my search is free, responsible, and endless.
In the latest issue of our church newsletter, there's an article by the Youth Program Coordinator about upcoming program changes. One section in particular stands out for me:
In spite of being raised all their lives in the church, the high school youth I work with struggle in talking about their faith and they are jealous of their Christian and Jewish counterparts who have seemingly easy religious answers. Unfortunately, our ambivalence about religion keeps us from giving our kids what they want and need. My fear is that if we don't meet this need, we will lose them to other faiths or, worse, to no faith at all.
For those who aren't familiar with Unitarian Universalism, it is a non-creedal religion that is incredibly welcoming. Like I mentioned above, we have guiding principles - not doctrines. Indeed, the "About Unitarian Universalism" page of UUC's website acknowledges a spectrum of belief: "Some UUs consider themselves Christian. Many UUs would also describe themselves as Buddhist or Jewish. Other members are attuned to earth-centered spirituality and religion. UUs may also use the terms humanist or atheist to describe themselves."
But when you invite so many different beliefs under the same tent, there are bound to be tensions. Can we name ourselves any way we wish as long as we come to church? If, like the newsletter article says, it's "worse" to have "no faith," are Christian, Buddhist, Jewish, Pagan or Humanist-UUs all better than Atheist-UUs?
And about those teenagers. I have volunteered in one way or another with UU youth since 2004, and I have seen the kind of children a UU church (and its "ambivalence") raises: compassionate, curious, joyful, humorous, intelligent ones with a wide range of personal beliefs. Could we practice more unified beliefs and traditions so that any UU, of any age, would "struggle" less when discussing the UU faith? Yes...but how do you go about choosing among the strands? "We seek wisdom from all sources" - again, the "About UU" page
" - contemporary and ancient poets, the Bible, Buddhist texts, Native American religion, and many other practices and faiths."
Of course some of the high school students are "jealous" of "seemingly easy answers" - it is difficult to concisely explain UU's plurality, especially in a sound bite-loving age. And if the answers we speak of aren't to questions like, "What is UU?" but instead, "What happens when we die?" then this jealousy is all the more understandable; injustice and loss and simply being a thinking person are hard work. But easy answers are often untrue, and the UU youth are smart and know that.
Last fall I attended a meeting at which one of our ministers asked someone, "If you don't identify as a UU, why are you here?" It might sound obvious when written, but it was jarring to hear. I'm here because this is my community, and I thought I was welcomed on my search for truth and meaning. I didn't know that the labels in my mind would be policed as I explored.
In my congregation, it sometimes feels like we are politely at war over our direction. We should always keep in mind principle # 5, "The right of conscience and the use of the democratic process within our congregation and in society at large." Whichever ways we go, we have to trust our youth - even when they choose no faith at all.
In the latest issue of our church newsletter, there's an article by the Youth Program Coordinator about upcoming program changes. One section in particular stands out for me:
In spite of being raised all their lives in the church, the high school youth I work with struggle in talking about their faith and they are jealous of their Christian and Jewish counterparts who have seemingly easy religious answers. Unfortunately, our ambivalence about religion keeps us from giving our kids what they want and need. My fear is that if we don't meet this need, we will lose them to other faiths or, worse, to no faith at all.
For those who aren't familiar with Unitarian Universalism, it is a non-creedal religion that is incredibly welcoming. Like I mentioned above, we have guiding principles - not doctrines. Indeed, the "About Unitarian Universalism" page of UUC's website acknowledges a spectrum of belief: "Some UUs consider themselves Christian. Many UUs would also describe themselves as Buddhist or Jewish. Other members are attuned to earth-centered spirituality and religion. UUs may also use the terms humanist or atheist to describe themselves."
But when you invite so many different beliefs under the same tent, there are bound to be tensions. Can we name ourselves any way we wish as long as we come to church? If, like the newsletter article says, it's "worse" to have "no faith," are Christian, Buddhist, Jewish, Pagan or Humanist-UUs all better than Atheist-UUs?
And about those teenagers. I have volunteered in one way or another with UU youth since 2004, and I have seen the kind of children a UU church (and its "ambivalence") raises: compassionate, curious, joyful, humorous, intelligent ones with a wide range of personal beliefs. Could we practice more unified beliefs and traditions so that any UU, of any age, would "struggle" less when discussing the UU faith? Yes...but how do you go about choosing among the strands? "We seek wisdom from all sources" - again, the "About UU" page
" - contemporary and ancient poets, the Bible, Buddhist texts, Native American religion, and many other practices and faiths."
Of course some of the high school students are "jealous" of "seemingly easy answers" - it is difficult to concisely explain UU's plurality, especially in a sound bite-loving age. And if the answers we speak of aren't to questions like, "What is UU?" but instead, "What happens when we die?" then this jealousy is all the more understandable; injustice and loss and simply being a thinking person are hard work. But easy answers are often untrue, and the UU youth are smart and know that.
Last fall I attended a meeting at which one of our ministers asked someone, "If you don't identify as a UU, why are you here?" It might sound obvious when written, but it was jarring to hear. I'm here because this is my community, and I thought I was welcomed on my search for truth and meaning. I didn't know that the labels in my mind would be policed as I explored.
In my congregation, it sometimes feels like we are politely at war over our direction. We should always keep in mind principle # 5, "The right of conscience and the use of the democratic process within our congregation and in society at large." Whichever ways we go, we have to trust our youth - even when they choose no faith at all.
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