Monte is annoyed with me. He woke up at 1:30 this morning to find that I still hadn't come to bed. I was hunched over my computer, surfing for Harry Potter trivia.
The telltale squeak of the floorboards alerted me that he'd woken. I froze with my hand on the mouse, caught in the act.
Monte appeared in his jammies, looking all cute and disheveled. His hair stuck up at the back and his face was impressed with sleep lines. "You're still on the computer? What are you looking at?" he asked. I thought fast for something that would be deemed appropriate.
"Porn," I said.
"Oh," he mumbled. "Okay." Then he shuffled off to the bathroom.
But I knew he knew better. I shut down my computer and hurried to the bedroom. When Monte came back to bed I tucked him in and smoothed his hair.
"Must be nice," he murmured pointedly, "not to have to get up in the morning."
Ouch.
Of course, this morning he has no memory of having said that. But I was a little miffed, so I told him that his new cowboy boots look silly with his favorite blue pants.
They do. It was sound sartorial advice. But I took a little pleasure in the telling.
Friday, November 14, 2008
Thursday, November 13, 2008
This blog needs more photos
There. Isn't that pretty? I took that in Venice. This one too:
I had a good time with my camera in Venice. Forget being a city for lovers; Venice is a city for photographers.
It is not a city for those with a tendency toward motion sickness. Everywhere you look there's water, water, water, slapping, lolling, waving, moving. By the third day I was declaring, "I feel like I'm on a boat!" By the fourth day I was wishing I was on a boat, just so the rocking feeling would make sense. And that night my poor mother sicked up her dinner due to the constant motion in her head. Yarf.
But still, a lovely city.
Look folks, it's Day 4 of Unemployment and I'm at a bit of a loose end. It's not that I have nothing to do. I have plenty to do. I have a list as long as my arm of things to do, and my arms are fairly long. I'm just having some trouble getting things done.
I start out in the morning with the best of intentions. I get up. I drink a green smoothie. I plan to go for a run. Sometimes I actually do go for a run. Sometimes I stay in my pajamas and think really hard about going for a run, which is probably just as effective. I sit down at my computer. I check my email. I wait 10 minutes, then I check it again. I am amazed when nothing has changed.
I try to clean one small area of my house. I might do the dishes or clear off the coffee table. Nothing too strenuous. Don't want to freak myself out, you know?
I email my friends at work: Hey, how's it going? What are you guys doing? Is it weird that I'm not there? It's weird, right?
I eat lunch.
Then I tool around on my computer, pretending I'm working, actually feeling like I'm working (blogging is working, right?), until the sun goes down (blessedly early). Then I dust off my hands, call it a day well done and flick on the tube. If I've changed out of my pajamas, I put them back on.
I should probably wash those soon.
I know this will get easier. I know I will figure out how to be the productive superhero that I always knew I could be if I just had the time. I probably just need a week to blunder around in my PJs and, you know, find myself.
I guess I'm a little lost.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Students Run Oakland
A few months back some friends and I attended a screening of the film Runners High, a documentary that follows 4 Oakland teens as they train to run a marathon. The kids were involved with a group called Students Run Oakland, a non-profit organization that trains Oakland youth to run the marathon with the broader ambition of teaching these kids that there is nothing beyond their reach.
The film inspired me, and in a pique of magnanimity I decided to volunteer with SRO. "I can make a difference in these kids' lives," I said tremulously to Monte, the day I signed up. "You should have seen this movie. These kids show up to run in their street shoes, their blue jeans. Some of them have never run 2 blocks. First they don't think they can do it - and sometimes their parents don't think they can do it! - but by the end, when they finish the marathon, they know they can do anything they set their minds to!"
Monte regarded me carefully. "You're going to run a marathon?" he asked me.
"It'll be hard, I'm sure. But if these kids can do it, I can do it," I said confidently.
I am not a runner. Matter of fact, I was that kid in gym class who walked the 16 minute mile and still had to struggle not to throw up. I've been afraid of sports my whole life; they didn't come naturally to me and as a shy kid I was wary of team activities. The result was that I missed out on a lot. My fear held me back from trying new things and making new friends. That realization has been dawning on me over the last few years, and I've decided not to let my past dictate my future. I was something of a fearful kid, but that's not the kind of woman I want to be.
So I'm going to run this marathon.
I went to my first session of SRO some weeks ago and found myself keeping pace with a student named Sara on our first 2 mile run. I was prepared to administer guidance and support. But Sara schooled me quickly.
"Everybody in my family is heavy," she told me, "and they've all got diabetes. I don't want to get diabetes too. That's why I'm here. That's why I'm running."
"Wow," I said.
"The doctor told me I weigh a little too much, but I'm strong, you know? I don't eat junk food, I don't eat fast food. I used to have asthma, but I just kept on exercising and it went away."
"That's great," I encouraged.
"I was doing this with my friends," she continued. "And one my friends, he was like, 'I'm only here because of you.' And I said, 'Don't do it for me, do it for yourself.' Cause in the end we're all going to have to do it for ourselves, you know?"
I looked at Sara, running steadily toward the finish, and wondered just how I was supposed to be her mentor. I felt like asking her to give me some life advice.
The following week I met Yesica. She told me about her family's upcoming trip to Mexico.
"It's so, so fun!" she enthused. "We go once a year - no, once every other year. And we go for two weeks and it's just like a giant party. All of my family is there and we just eat and hang out and have a great time. I love it; it's my favorite thing!"
"That sounds incredible," I said.
"But this year I don't want to go."
"How come?" I asked her.
"Because I don't want to fall behind in school! Last year I was in the program and I did the whole thing - like, the whole thing, all the way up till the last run. But then my grades dropped and I wasn't allowed to do the marathon."
"Wow, that must have been hard," I said.
"It was," she agreed. "But this year my grades are pretty good and I don't want to mess up again. I want to keep doing good so that I can graduate and run the marathon."
OK. Another teen who apparently needs no guidance from me. I told her to keep up the good work and went looking for a less fortunate kid.
The trouble is, I can't seem to find one. All these kids are well-adjusted and smart and fast runners. I realized just how fast upon my return from vacation - and three weeks behind in my own training.
This past Saturday we did a 7 mile run. It was supposed to be 5.5 miles - that's what I was prepared for - but due to the fact that the marathon has been pushed up by several weeks, we're now working on a condensed training schedule. So I went to last weekend's run jet-lagged, out of practice, and admittedly hungover. (Cut me some slack; Friday was my last day at work.)
Half a mile into the run I was hurting. Most of the kids had shot ahead of me and were little figurines in the distance. But that was normal; I keep a slow pace and usually do the first part of the run on my own. It's after the kids peter out that I'm able to scoop a few up and convince them to run steady and slow. Most of these kids maintain that they cannot slow down, but they exhaust themselves after a couple of minutes. I run like a little old lady, but I can go for several miles.
Usually. But Saturday was a struggle. I thought about copping out at the water stop and claiming illness (which wasn't too far from the truth, with the alcohol still sloshing through my veins). But instead I slowed my pace even more and glommed onto a couple of kids who were walking.
"Hey!" I said brightly. "Are you guys practicing the 5 minute rule?"
The 5 minute rule is supposed to keep the kids from walking the entire course. The rule is: Run 3 minutes, walk 2 minutes. Once you've got that under your belt you can progress to the 10 minute rule, which is: Run 7 minutes, walk 3 minutes. It really works. I know, because it's the same rule I use to bribe myself.
The kids looked at me warily. "I guess so," one of them said, even though none was wearing a watch.
"Great!" I said cheerfully. "I'll time you!" Seeing that I was not to be deterred, they grudgingly started to run.
And instantly I was eating their dust. "One minute!" I called out from behind them. "Two minutes! Good job guys! Three minutes!" As soon as I called 'three' they stopped dead in their tracks, determined not to run a second longer than they had to.
I caught up with them, still jogging slowly. "You guys are doing great!" I told them. "Now do you think you can run a little slower, like me? And maybe you won't need to stop so often?" They looked at me with blank faces. "No? OK, cool. Well, let's do it again. Ready, set, run!"
Again they took off and I was left in their wake. I trotted along behind them for countless 3-minute sessions, but these kids did not want to talk to me. I tried not to take it personally. I skipped along beside them during their 2-minute walks and peppered them with good-natured questions: "What school do you go to? All of you? What grade are you in? All of you?" They answered with as few words as they possibly could. Eventually I started feeling like an idiot, but I kept up my cheerful demeanor.
With about 2 miles to go, one of the kids really took off. He ran so far ahead that he didn't hear me call '5 minutes' (we'd worked our way up to 5). I was impressed but I was also dismayed. My whole body hurt. I was desperate to be done with the run, and I'll admit - I was calling time earlier and earlier just to keep up with the kids. A few times they ran right out of earshot and I had to crank it up to get back in their time zone. I was feeling light-headed and achy, and remembering every drink from the night before with acute clarity.
And then it was over. I felt like collapsing on the sidewalk, but the kids didn't look any worse for the wear. I don't even think they were sweating. I gathered my 3 students around me. "Hey you guys," I panted. "You just ran 7 miles. Can you believe it?"
They blinked at me.
"I am really proud of you," I persisted. I looked them each in the eye and tried to hold them in a meaningful gaze, but they just looked at the ground. "Really proud of you," I said again. "Shoot, I'm really proud of me!"
And there it was - a smile! From 2 out of 3 of them. How about that!
Then they turned around and walked away.
"You're going to want to stretch," I called out to their backs. "Or you'll be hurting tomorrow."
Truer words were never spoken. Wish I'd heeded my own advice.
The film inspired me, and in a pique of magnanimity I decided to volunteer with SRO. "I can make a difference in these kids' lives," I said tremulously to Monte, the day I signed up. "You should have seen this movie. These kids show up to run in their street shoes, their blue jeans. Some of them have never run 2 blocks. First they don't think they can do it - and sometimes their parents don't think they can do it! - but by the end, when they finish the marathon, they know they can do anything they set their minds to!"
Monte regarded me carefully. "You're going to run a marathon?" he asked me.
"It'll be hard, I'm sure. But if these kids can do it, I can do it," I said confidently.
I am not a runner. Matter of fact, I was that kid in gym class who walked the 16 minute mile and still had to struggle not to throw up. I've been afraid of sports my whole life; they didn't come naturally to me and as a shy kid I was wary of team activities. The result was that I missed out on a lot. My fear held me back from trying new things and making new friends. That realization has been dawning on me over the last few years, and I've decided not to let my past dictate my future. I was something of a fearful kid, but that's not the kind of woman I want to be.
So I'm going to run this marathon.
I went to my first session of SRO some weeks ago and found myself keeping pace with a student named Sara on our first 2 mile run. I was prepared to administer guidance and support. But Sara schooled me quickly.
"Everybody in my family is heavy," she told me, "and they've all got diabetes. I don't want to get diabetes too. That's why I'm here. That's why I'm running."
"Wow," I said.
"The doctor told me I weigh a little too much, but I'm strong, you know? I don't eat junk food, I don't eat fast food. I used to have asthma, but I just kept on exercising and it went away."
"That's great," I encouraged.
"I was doing this with my friends," she continued. "And one my friends, he was like, 'I'm only here because of you.' And I said, 'Don't do it for me, do it for yourself.' Cause in the end we're all going to have to do it for ourselves, you know?"
I looked at Sara, running steadily toward the finish, and wondered just how I was supposed to be her mentor. I felt like asking her to give me some life advice.
The following week I met Yesica. She told me about her family's upcoming trip to Mexico.
"It's so, so fun!" she enthused. "We go once a year - no, once every other year. And we go for two weeks and it's just like a giant party. All of my family is there and we just eat and hang out and have a great time. I love it; it's my favorite thing!"
"That sounds incredible," I said.
"But this year I don't want to go."
"How come?" I asked her.
"Because I don't want to fall behind in school! Last year I was in the program and I did the whole thing - like, the whole thing, all the way up till the last run. But then my grades dropped and I wasn't allowed to do the marathon."
"Wow, that must have been hard," I said.
"It was," she agreed. "But this year my grades are pretty good and I don't want to mess up again. I want to keep doing good so that I can graduate and run the marathon."
OK. Another teen who apparently needs no guidance from me. I told her to keep up the good work and went looking for a less fortunate kid.
The trouble is, I can't seem to find one. All these kids are well-adjusted and smart and fast runners. I realized just how fast upon my return from vacation - and three weeks behind in my own training.
This past Saturday we did a 7 mile run. It was supposed to be 5.5 miles - that's what I was prepared for - but due to the fact that the marathon has been pushed up by several weeks, we're now working on a condensed training schedule. So I went to last weekend's run jet-lagged, out of practice, and admittedly hungover. (Cut me some slack; Friday was my last day at work.)
Half a mile into the run I was hurting. Most of the kids had shot ahead of me and were little figurines in the distance. But that was normal; I keep a slow pace and usually do the first part of the run on my own. It's after the kids peter out that I'm able to scoop a few up and convince them to run steady and slow. Most of these kids maintain that they cannot slow down, but they exhaust themselves after a couple of minutes. I run like a little old lady, but I can go for several miles.
Usually. But Saturday was a struggle. I thought about copping out at the water stop and claiming illness (which wasn't too far from the truth, with the alcohol still sloshing through my veins). But instead I slowed my pace even more and glommed onto a couple of kids who were walking.
"Hey!" I said brightly. "Are you guys practicing the 5 minute rule?"
The 5 minute rule is supposed to keep the kids from walking the entire course. The rule is: Run 3 minutes, walk 2 minutes. Once you've got that under your belt you can progress to the 10 minute rule, which is: Run 7 minutes, walk 3 minutes. It really works. I know, because it's the same rule I use to bribe myself.
The kids looked at me warily. "I guess so," one of them said, even though none was wearing a watch.
"Great!" I said cheerfully. "I'll time you!" Seeing that I was not to be deterred, they grudgingly started to run.
And instantly I was eating their dust. "One minute!" I called out from behind them. "Two minutes! Good job guys! Three minutes!" As soon as I called 'three' they stopped dead in their tracks, determined not to run a second longer than they had to.
I caught up with them, still jogging slowly. "You guys are doing great!" I told them. "Now do you think you can run a little slower, like me? And maybe you won't need to stop so often?" They looked at me with blank faces. "No? OK, cool. Well, let's do it again. Ready, set, run!"
Again they took off and I was left in their wake. I trotted along behind them for countless 3-minute sessions, but these kids did not want to talk to me. I tried not to take it personally. I skipped along beside them during their 2-minute walks and peppered them with good-natured questions: "What school do you go to? All of you? What grade are you in? All of you?" They answered with as few words as they possibly could. Eventually I started feeling like an idiot, but I kept up my cheerful demeanor.
With about 2 miles to go, one of the kids really took off. He ran so far ahead that he didn't hear me call '5 minutes' (we'd worked our way up to 5). I was impressed but I was also dismayed. My whole body hurt. I was desperate to be done with the run, and I'll admit - I was calling time earlier and earlier just to keep up with the kids. A few times they ran right out of earshot and I had to crank it up to get back in their time zone. I was feeling light-headed and achy, and remembering every drink from the night before with acute clarity.
And then it was over. I felt like collapsing on the sidewalk, but the kids didn't look any worse for the wear. I don't even think they were sweating. I gathered my 3 students around me. "Hey you guys," I panted. "You just ran 7 miles. Can you believe it?"
They blinked at me.
"I am really proud of you," I persisted. I looked them each in the eye and tried to hold them in a meaningful gaze, but they just looked at the ground. "Really proud of you," I said again. "Shoot, I'm really proud of me!"
And there it was - a smile! From 2 out of 3 of them. How about that!
Then they turned around and walked away.
"You're going to want to stretch," I called out to their backs. "Or you'll be hurting tomorrow."
Truer words were never spoken. Wish I'd heeded my own advice.
I said NO on Proposition 8, people
Mark your calendars folks, because the fight for civil rights ain't over yet.
This Saturday, November 15th, there is a massive protest scheduled, linking cities all over America. Here in San Francisco the protest begins at 10:30 AM on the steps of City Hall. Go to www.jointheimpact.com to find out where your city is organizing.
I'm disappointed that I won't be able to attend the rally, due to marathon training, but I encourage you all to participate and make a stand for equal rights. To quote the bumper sticker: Do it for someone you know.
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
People get ready
I went to bed last night at 7:30 PM in a very foul mood. Losing my job had me terribly depressed. I couldn't even bear to watch the election coverage; I just wanted to go to sleep.
I woke up with a start in the middle of the night - there were firecrackers going off outside my window. And there was cheering in the streets; it sounded like the entire block was partying. Car horns were blaring, voices were shouting in celebration. I peered through my blinds but couldn't see anyone; my window faces the wrong way. I thought for a moment about throwing a coat over my pajamas and racing off to find the party, but instead I lay back down and said a fervent prayer of thanks. I let the sounds of my neighbors' cheering lull me back to sleep.
Barack Obama is president! It's a new world order, folks.
Yesterday my father wrote this email to his family:
Do you remember when we were really young, when Daddy would call Mama from the kitchen, "Lenore, come look, come look at this!" On the television would be someone like Sammy Davis, Jr., Nat King Cole or Ella Fitzgerald -- and it was so unusual to see a black person on TV! Do you remember watching news coverage of the marchers in Alabama being hosed, or shots of snarling dogs? I do. And I remember trips to Mississippi to visit Big Mama when we had to use the "Colored" toilets at gas stops; and we couldn't drink from the "Whites" water fountain.
Once I remember Uncle Landie allowing Ronnie and me to drive to town with him. When he went into the hardware store he asked Ronnie to watch me and I didn't know why, since Ronnie was only a couple of years older than me. I wandered a few doors down the street to look at a movie poster and Ronnie grabbed me by the arm, pulling me away, saying "you can't be seen lookin' at that white woman". He was afraid and protecting me from looking at a movie poster! At that young age I was confused about how messed up things were. I was too naive to understand that a picture could have gotten me killed.
I have other memories of being the first or only black to have a certain job. Once while working at TV6 an ABC Network Correspondent, Mal Goode, visited our station from New York. He was the first black network correspondent hired by any network. When he walked into the studio he noticed me as the only black there. He came over and offered quiet encouragement, urging me to not give up. His words meant a lot to me.
Imagine how Barack Obama will encourage children in this country! I think about the image of his family getting on Marine 1 and lifting off the White House lawn and the symbolism makes me cry with happiness. This bi-racial man represents profound change and the ability to inspire all of us.
In 1988 while on a trip to Mississippi and Louisiana, I found a picture of our great-great grandparents, Louis and Sarah Watson. Aunt Minnie gave me the large framed version, having me dig it out from under a pile of stuff in her barn. After it was wrapped I talked to them and felt connected through the picture sitting on the front seat of my rental car as I drove to the airport in New Orleans for the trip home.
They had been slaves. They never dreamed this day would come. A Black President.
Since I've been researching our history it has become part of me; making me really, really think about our nation's history and how our family fits into the pages of that history. That is why I'm trying to find and restore old photos and capture the memories we each have, hoping that if Kiki, Errin or Matthew ever have children they can share it with them.
My sadness is that Mama, who was born before women had the right to vote, won't be able to vote tomorrow. The good news is that Barack's grandmother and our father have great seats so they can watch history being made.
I've studied the maps and the polls. I'll be tracking the Electoral Vote along with some key Senate races; especially North Carolina, Minnesota and Arkansas. This is shaping up to be historic on several levels.
Tomorrow we're going to make something special to celebrate Election Day and of course, pop a bit of Champagne when the time comes. I've warned Rodgner and Barb that I'm going to get teary. I'm ain't even going to pretend it won't happen.
Pray for his family and his safety.
I love you.
People get ready. There's a change coming.
I woke up with a start in the middle of the night - there were firecrackers going off outside my window. And there was cheering in the streets; it sounded like the entire block was partying. Car horns were blaring, voices were shouting in celebration. I peered through my blinds but couldn't see anyone; my window faces the wrong way. I thought for a moment about throwing a coat over my pajamas and racing off to find the party, but instead I lay back down and said a fervent prayer of thanks. I let the sounds of my neighbors' cheering lull me back to sleep.
Barack Obama is president! It's a new world order, folks.
Yesterday my father wrote this email to his family:
Do you remember when we were really young, when Daddy would call Mama from the kitchen, "Lenore, come look, come look at this!" On the television would be someone like Sammy Davis, Jr., Nat King Cole or Ella Fitzgerald -- and it was so unusual to see a black person on TV! Do you remember watching news coverage of the marchers in Alabama being hosed, or shots of snarling dogs? I do. And I remember trips to Mississippi to visit Big Mama when we had to use the "Colored" toilets at gas stops; and we couldn't drink from the "Whites" water fountain.
Once I remember Uncle Landie allowing Ronnie and me to drive to town with him. When he went into the hardware store he asked Ronnie to watch me and I didn't know why, since Ronnie was only a couple of years older than me. I wandered a few doors down the street to look at a movie poster and Ronnie grabbed me by the arm, pulling me away, saying "you can't be seen lookin' at that white woman". He was afraid and protecting me from looking at a movie poster! At that young age I was confused about how messed up things were. I was too naive to understand that a picture could have gotten me killed.
I have other memories of being the first or only black to have a certain job. Once while working at TV6 an ABC Network Correspondent, Mal Goode, visited our station from New York. He was the first black network correspondent hired by any network. When he walked into the studio he noticed me as the only black there. He came over and offered quiet encouragement, urging me to not give up. His words meant a lot to me.
Imagine how Barack Obama will encourage children in this country! I think about the image of his family getting on Marine 1 and lifting off the White House lawn and the symbolism makes me cry with happiness. This bi-racial man represents profound change and the ability to inspire all of us.
In 1988 while on a trip to Mississippi and Louisiana, I found a picture of our great-great grandparents, Louis and Sarah Watson. Aunt Minnie gave me the large framed version, having me dig it out from under a pile of stuff in her barn. After it was wrapped I talked to them and felt connected through the picture sitting on the front seat of my rental car as I drove to the airport in New Orleans for the trip home.
They had been slaves. They never dreamed this day would come. A Black President.
Since I've been researching our history it has become part of me; making me really, really think about our nation's history and how our family fits into the pages of that history. That is why I'm trying to find and restore old photos and capture the memories we each have, hoping that if Kiki, Errin or Matthew ever have children they can share it with them.
My sadness is that Mama, who was born before women had the right to vote, won't be able to vote tomorrow. The good news is that Barack's grandmother and our father have great seats so they can watch history being made.
I've studied the maps and the polls. I'll be tracking the Electoral Vote along with some key Senate races; especially North Carolina, Minnesota and Arkansas. This is shaping up to be historic on several levels.
Tomorrow we're going to make something special to celebrate Election Day and of course, pop a bit of Champagne when the time comes. I've warned Rodgner and Barb that I'm going to get teary. I'm ain't even going to pretend it won't happen.
Pray for his family and his safety.
I love you.
People get ready. There's a change coming.
Monday, November 3, 2008
Will work for food
I just got back from a two week vacation in Europe and I was going to write all about it, but today I got laid off. And now I don't feel like writing about my super-fun vacation anymore.
The kick in the pants is that I was on a company trip. The travel company that I work(ed) for has an annual Staff Ride, and this year we biked through Northeastern Italy and Slovenia. I've been complaining about my job for two and a half years, but I had such a great time on this trip that it really made me re-evaluate my situation. I went into work this morning thinking how lucky I am to work at a place that grants me such great opportunities and how much I like the people I work with. And this afternoon they let me go.
Now I hate them again.
Oh, this stupid recession. Can you believe that I actually thought I was immune to it? When the market tanked and everyone around me started to panic, I mused: Hmm. I don't own any property. I don't have any investments. I make so little money that I never even started a 401K. I've literally got nothing to lose.
Except my freaking job.
I just spent all my money, I mean all my damn money, on this trip to Europe and they lay me off the day I get back. That's cold, bro.
I should note that I'm one of 17 people who got the axe. But at the moment it feels very personal. Ten minutes after I was given the news, an email went out to the company listing the names of those who were let go. We weren't even given time to process the information before everybody learned of it.
Oh, I'm crabby. I'm jet-lagged and I'm crabby. I'm poke-a-kid-and-make-him-cry-and-then-yell-at-him-for-crying crabby. You should probably avoid me for a day or so.
Stupid company. I didn't want to work for you anyway.
Yeah I did.
The kick in the pants is that I was on a company trip. The travel company that I work(ed) for has an annual Staff Ride, and this year we biked through Northeastern Italy and Slovenia. I've been complaining about my job for two and a half years, but I had such a great time on this trip that it really made me re-evaluate my situation. I went into work this morning thinking how lucky I am to work at a place that grants me such great opportunities and how much I like the people I work with. And this afternoon they let me go.
Now I hate them again.
Oh, this stupid recession. Can you believe that I actually thought I was immune to it? When the market tanked and everyone around me started to panic, I mused: Hmm. I don't own any property. I don't have any investments. I make so little money that I never even started a 401K. I've literally got nothing to lose.
Except my freaking job.
I just spent all my money, I mean all my damn money, on this trip to Europe and they lay me off the day I get back. That's cold, bro.
I should note that I'm one of 17 people who got the axe. But at the moment it feels very personal. Ten minutes after I was given the news, an email went out to the company listing the names of those who were let go. We weren't even given time to process the information before everybody learned of it.
Oh, I'm crabby. I'm jet-lagged and I'm crabby. I'm poke-a-kid-and-make-him-cry-and-then-yell-at-him-for-crying crabby. You should probably avoid me for a day or so.
Stupid company. I didn't want to work for you anyway.
Yeah I did.
Wednesday, October 15, 2008
No on Proposition 8
Man, I've been busy.
In this past month I've been robbed, had a birthday and started training for a marathon. I've also been preparing for a trip to Europe, which begins this weekend! So I haven't had much time to write. I apologize to my 8 readers.
I've also been busy keeping up with this election. For the first time (ever, really) I am learning about the issues because of a genuine interest, rather than a guilty feeling that I should be more informed.
I have tried, in the past, to become more involved in our democratic process. Four years ago I volunteered with the Democratic National Convention. I wasn't working at the time and it seemed like a great way to make a little money, meet some new people and be a part of what was happening in the world.
I lasted one day. And folks, I didn't think I was going to last that long. They had us knocking on doors to request donations, which is something that I absolutely hate to do. I'm a lousy salesperson. I was that Girl Scout who sold the fewest boxes of cookies, okay? I don't even like convincing people to give money in exchange for desired goods, so I surely wanted nothing to do with asking people to give money out of a sense of civic duty. I think I literally would have preferred to spend the day giving myself paper cuts.
As if that weren't bad enough, I didn't anticipate the sheer amount of exercise involved in canvassing hilly neighborhoods on foot. I was exhausted within the hour. My fundraising partner was a dedicated woman in her fifties with an ungodly amount of energy. As darkness began to fall she turned to me and said earnestly, "I think we should run between houses. We'll cover more ground that way." That's when I knew I was never coming back.
Flash forward to present day. I've been watching the debates with great enthusiasm, playing Palin Bingo and having post-mortem discussions with my friends and co-workers. I've given small donations to the Obama campaign and a handful of non-profit organizations. But I did not intend to donate my time. For one thing, I don't have a lot of it, so I consider it to be a bit of a precious commodity. And just as I'd long ago come to terms with my guilt over not giving blood (the very thought makes me woozy), I'd made my peace with the fact that I don't volunteer. About four years ago, in fact.
But lately I've found myself yelling at the TV, especially when I see those Yes on Proposition 8 ads. Proposition 8 is the measure proposed to ban gay and lesbian marriage in California. I have long been a supporter of gay rights, but I didn't realize until this year just how fervently I believe in this issue. In fact, I was surprised to find myself holding back tears when Joe Biden announced in the vice presidential debate that neither he nor Barack Obama support changing the definition of marriage to include same-sex couples. I'd like to believe that was a purely political move, and that in their hearts they want true equality for everyone, but it desperately hurt my feelings to think that they have to temper their views to appeal to the politics of conservative voters.
I suppose Glide has much to do with shaping my views on this issue. Every week I am privileged to be greeted with messages of equality, acceptance and respect. But I've also had the chance to meet and befriend so many different people. It's become a natural thing for me to witness love in its many forms. Sometimes I forget that not everyone is so fortunate.
The first time I ever pondered the issue of gay rights I was 12 years old. I was at the mall with some friends and I saw a man dressed as a woman. It puzzled me, because he was obviously a man with an Adam's apple and a 5 o'clock shadow to boot. But he was wearing a stretchy white dress, high heels and carrying a big white purse. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it.
I decided to broach the subject over Thanksgiving dinner that weekend. "I saw a man at the mall the other day," I announced to my parents and visiting relatives. "He was dressed like a lady with a wig and makeup and everything." I'm not sure what sort of feedback I expected from my announcement. But I was kind of confused by what I'd seen and I think I was looking for some sort of adult opinion to help me shape my own ideas.
I was not prepared for the small explosion that issued forth from my aunt. "Oh Lord, no!" she exclaimed. "No, no, no-no-no! That is not natural. That is not right! My goodness, no." She was shaking her head and shredding her turkey in consternation.
"What do you mean?" I questioned carefully. She really looked as though she might have a stroke. "Why is it so bad if a man wants to wear a dress?" I realized as I spoke the words that I didn't understand why a man would want to wear a dress, but it hadn't disturbed my day, so why get bothered about it? My aunt made the sign of the cross.
"Sinful, it's just sinful; that's all it is! Going against God! A man wearing a dress, it's just not natural. Sinful," she emphasized with the point of her finger.
I was taken aback by her vehemence. I'd never known my aunt to be anything but loving and accepting. After all, we were an interracial family and to my knowledge she'd never had trouble accepting my mom. I couldn't understand her position. "Why is it sinful?" I pressed.
My aunt began rocking back and forth in her chair, pleating her napkin with worry. "Why is it sinful? Why? Lord Jesus, no," she muttered. My parents shot me a look that clearly said, "Let it go". I think we were all concerned that my aunt might have an apoplectic fit right there at the table. So I dropped the subject, but not before saying cheerfully, "I liked his purse."
My aunt snorted loudly into her napkin.
As an adult I look back and realize that that exchange did more to shape my views about gay rights than anything in the years that followed. Yes, at 12 years old I thought there was something a bit odd about a man in a dress, but the absolute intolerance of my aunt's position, the furious way that she spoke against a person she hadn't even seen struck me as being ridiculous. Unwittingly, she primed me for the opposite side.
I was a senior in high school when my best friend stormed up to me one day in a rage. "Did you know," she demanded, "that it's illegal for gay people to get married? Did you know that?"
I did not know that. Honestly, it had never occurred to me. She was the only gay person I knew.
"I'm not allowed to get married!" she railed. "How is that fair? Why is that allowed? What, do they think that just because I'm a lesbian I can't fall in love with somebody? Do they think that gay people don't want to get married and have families?"
"Do you want to get married?" I asked her, curious. I didn't think that she did.
"I don't know!" she shouted. "I don't know! But don't I at least deserve that choice?" I nodded.
She swooped in on me. "Doesn't this bother you? Don't you think it's wrong?"
Of course I thought it was wrong, I assured her. But to be honest, I was having trouble working up to her level of indignation. We were kids and marriage was so far away. And she really was the only person I knew who was affected by the issue. Empathy is hard to come by at 17. I was in the throes of self-obsession.
Today I think back on my reaction and I'm slightly ashamed. Now I have a better understanding of how it must have felt to learn for the first time that you're not allowed the same basic rights as everybody else. Now I have a sense of how deeply that must have hurt.
Interestingly enough, our home state of Connecticut ruled to legalize gay marriage last week. This is fantastic news. But in a terrible twist, Californians now have real cause to worry that the right for same-sex couples to marry may be overturned in next month's election.
Which brings me to last night. Despite my aversion to volunteering I'd been feeling a new sense of responsibility, an increasing awareness that I need to play a part in the solution if I'm going to bitch about the problem. So I signed up for a time slot manning phone banks for the No on Prop 8 campaign. Recalling my experience with the DNC, I was not looking forward to the evening. I expected to have a dismal time. But I went anyway, because I knew I'd be kicking myself if the measure passed and I hadn't done anything to fight it.
To my surprise and delight, it was a wonderful experience. From the moment I walked into the Castro headquarters I was thrilled by the operation; the atmosphere was charged with purpose. The large room was filled with people, but right off the bat I spotted several friends from Glide. I was 10 minutes too late for the first training session, so I was urged to help myself to food while I waited for the next round of instructions. The training was more thorough than I'd expected; for half an hour they led us through our talking points and had us practice making calls. We were given a script to follow, so there was no need to speak off the cuff. And then they turned us loose with our cell phones to start changing the world.
Here's where it got a little disheartening: I made 63 phone calls last night. I only reached 3 people who pledged to vote No on Prop 8. Most of the numbers I dialed never picked up. I actually whipped through my entire list in an hour and had to be given another one.
After reaching my 25th answering machine, I put my phone down and heaved a sigh of frustration. But then I took a moment to glance around the room. Everywhere I looked volunteers were crammed in at tables, sprawled on couches, perched on folding chairs or laying on the floor. Everyone had a phone pressed against their ear; half the room was jabbing in earnest. Every once in awhile we heard the ding! of a bell as someone signified that they'd gotten a No vote. And the rest of the room would flutter their hands in silent applause. Taking in the scene, I was filled with hope. I felt like I was part of history in the making. Turns out I didn't miss the civil rights movement after all.
So here are the stats from last night, and this is why we need you: 609 people pledged to vote No on Proposition 8. 7 people pledged to vote No and made a financial donation. 112 people told us that they were voting yes on Proposition 8. 1 person said that they were voting yes and made a financial contribution to the other side.
90 people were undecided. That's 90 undecided folks who learned more about the issue last night, due to our phone calls. That's 90 people who might take the time to go to the website and get the facts before casting their vote. And this election is going to be so close. Just a few of those 90 votes may be enough to tip the scales in our favor.
Now here's the troubling thing: Many people told us that they hadn't heard anything about Proposition 8 and didn't know what it was. So the message isn't reaching far enough. Even more troubling: several folks reported, "Yes, I support same-sex marriage, so I'm voting yes on Proposition 8." No, no, no! Granted, the language is a bit confusing, so we have to call more voters and make sure the message is clear.
Last night I learned that the opposition has out-funded us by 9 million dollars, which means that people are seeing more of their ads than ours. And because so many people are undecided or uninformed, it's really mission critical that we get our message out. The message is that all of us are worthy and deserving of equality, acceptance, respect and love.
So I urge you to participate in the phone banks, donate your time or your money. With less than a month till Election Day, our collective action is needed more urgently than ever before.
As a biracial woman, I often ponder the fact that I'm not too many generations removed from a time when it would have been illegal for my parents to marry. And then where would my brother and I be? My mom and dad waited for 5 years before having kids because they weren't sure the world was ready for us. And not everybody was. But could you look at me now and say that the love that brought me into this world was wrong? How can we look at anybody and say: The love you feel for that man, for that woman, is wrong?
Love is not wrong. You can't go wrong with love.
Please vote.
For more information, go to www.noonprop8.com .
In this past month I've been robbed, had a birthday and started training for a marathon. I've also been preparing for a trip to Europe, which begins this weekend! So I haven't had much time to write. I apologize to my 8 readers.
I've also been busy keeping up with this election. For the first time (ever, really) I am learning about the issues because of a genuine interest, rather than a guilty feeling that I should be more informed.
I have tried, in the past, to become more involved in our democratic process. Four years ago I volunteered with the Democratic National Convention. I wasn't working at the time and it seemed like a great way to make a little money, meet some new people and be a part of what was happening in the world.
I lasted one day. And folks, I didn't think I was going to last that long. They had us knocking on doors to request donations, which is something that I absolutely hate to do. I'm a lousy salesperson. I was that Girl Scout who sold the fewest boxes of cookies, okay? I don't even like convincing people to give money in exchange for desired goods, so I surely wanted nothing to do with asking people to give money out of a sense of civic duty. I think I literally would have preferred to spend the day giving myself paper cuts.
As if that weren't bad enough, I didn't anticipate the sheer amount of exercise involved in canvassing hilly neighborhoods on foot. I was exhausted within the hour. My fundraising partner was a dedicated woman in her fifties with an ungodly amount of energy. As darkness began to fall she turned to me and said earnestly, "I think we should run between houses. We'll cover more ground that way." That's when I knew I was never coming back.
Flash forward to present day. I've been watching the debates with great enthusiasm, playing Palin Bingo and having post-mortem discussions with my friends and co-workers. I've given small donations to the Obama campaign and a handful of non-profit organizations. But I did not intend to donate my time. For one thing, I don't have a lot of it, so I consider it to be a bit of a precious commodity. And just as I'd long ago come to terms with my guilt over not giving blood (the very thought makes me woozy), I'd made my peace with the fact that I don't volunteer. About four years ago, in fact.
But lately I've found myself yelling at the TV, especially when I see those Yes on Proposition 8 ads. Proposition 8 is the measure proposed to ban gay and lesbian marriage in California. I have long been a supporter of gay rights, but I didn't realize until this year just how fervently I believe in this issue. In fact, I was surprised to find myself holding back tears when Joe Biden announced in the vice presidential debate that neither he nor Barack Obama support changing the definition of marriage to include same-sex couples. I'd like to believe that was a purely political move, and that in their hearts they want true equality for everyone, but it desperately hurt my feelings to think that they have to temper their views to appeal to the politics of conservative voters.
I suppose Glide has much to do with shaping my views on this issue. Every week I am privileged to be greeted with messages of equality, acceptance and respect. But I've also had the chance to meet and befriend so many different people. It's become a natural thing for me to witness love in its many forms. Sometimes I forget that not everyone is so fortunate.
The first time I ever pondered the issue of gay rights I was 12 years old. I was at the mall with some friends and I saw a man dressed as a woman. It puzzled me, because he was obviously a man with an Adam's apple and a 5 o'clock shadow to boot. But he was wearing a stretchy white dress, high heels and carrying a big white purse. I wasn't quite sure what to make of it.
I decided to broach the subject over Thanksgiving dinner that weekend. "I saw a man at the mall the other day," I announced to my parents and visiting relatives. "He was dressed like a lady with a wig and makeup and everything." I'm not sure what sort of feedback I expected from my announcement. But I was kind of confused by what I'd seen and I think I was looking for some sort of adult opinion to help me shape my own ideas.
I was not prepared for the small explosion that issued forth from my aunt. "Oh Lord, no!" she exclaimed. "No, no, no-no-no! That is not natural. That is not right! My goodness, no." She was shaking her head and shredding her turkey in consternation.
"What do you mean?" I questioned carefully. She really looked as though she might have a stroke. "Why is it so bad if a man wants to wear a dress?" I realized as I spoke the words that I didn't understand why a man would want to wear a dress, but it hadn't disturbed my day, so why get bothered about it? My aunt made the sign of the cross.
"Sinful, it's just sinful; that's all it is! Going against God! A man wearing a dress, it's just not natural. Sinful," she emphasized with the point of her finger.
I was taken aback by her vehemence. I'd never known my aunt to be anything but loving and accepting. After all, we were an interracial family and to my knowledge she'd never had trouble accepting my mom. I couldn't understand her position. "Why is it sinful?" I pressed.
My aunt began rocking back and forth in her chair, pleating her napkin with worry. "Why is it sinful? Why? Lord Jesus, no," she muttered. My parents shot me a look that clearly said, "Let it go". I think we were all concerned that my aunt might have an apoplectic fit right there at the table. So I dropped the subject, but not before saying cheerfully, "I liked his purse."
My aunt snorted loudly into her napkin.
As an adult I look back and realize that that exchange did more to shape my views about gay rights than anything in the years that followed. Yes, at 12 years old I thought there was something a bit odd about a man in a dress, but the absolute intolerance of my aunt's position, the furious way that she spoke against a person she hadn't even seen struck me as being ridiculous. Unwittingly, she primed me for the opposite side.
I was a senior in high school when my best friend stormed up to me one day in a rage. "Did you know," she demanded, "that it's illegal for gay people to get married? Did you know that?"
I did not know that. Honestly, it had never occurred to me. She was the only gay person I knew.
"I'm not allowed to get married!" she railed. "How is that fair? Why is that allowed? What, do they think that just because I'm a lesbian I can't fall in love with somebody? Do they think that gay people don't want to get married and have families?"
"Do you want to get married?" I asked her, curious. I didn't think that she did.
"I don't know!" she shouted. "I don't know! But don't I at least deserve that choice?" I nodded.
She swooped in on me. "Doesn't this bother you? Don't you think it's wrong?"
Of course I thought it was wrong, I assured her. But to be honest, I was having trouble working up to her level of indignation. We were kids and marriage was so far away. And she really was the only person I knew who was affected by the issue. Empathy is hard to come by at 17. I was in the throes of self-obsession.
Today I think back on my reaction and I'm slightly ashamed. Now I have a better understanding of how it must have felt to learn for the first time that you're not allowed the same basic rights as everybody else. Now I have a sense of how deeply that must have hurt.
Interestingly enough, our home state of Connecticut ruled to legalize gay marriage last week. This is fantastic news. But in a terrible twist, Californians now have real cause to worry that the right for same-sex couples to marry may be overturned in next month's election.
Which brings me to last night. Despite my aversion to volunteering I'd been feeling a new sense of responsibility, an increasing awareness that I need to play a part in the solution if I'm going to bitch about the problem. So I signed up for a time slot manning phone banks for the No on Prop 8 campaign. Recalling my experience with the DNC, I was not looking forward to the evening. I expected to have a dismal time. But I went anyway, because I knew I'd be kicking myself if the measure passed and I hadn't done anything to fight it.
To my surprise and delight, it was a wonderful experience. From the moment I walked into the Castro headquarters I was thrilled by the operation; the atmosphere was charged with purpose. The large room was filled with people, but right off the bat I spotted several friends from Glide. I was 10 minutes too late for the first training session, so I was urged to help myself to food while I waited for the next round of instructions. The training was more thorough than I'd expected; for half an hour they led us through our talking points and had us practice making calls. We were given a script to follow, so there was no need to speak off the cuff. And then they turned us loose with our cell phones to start changing the world.
Here's where it got a little disheartening: I made 63 phone calls last night. I only reached 3 people who pledged to vote No on Prop 8. Most of the numbers I dialed never picked up. I actually whipped through my entire list in an hour and had to be given another one.
After reaching my 25th answering machine, I put my phone down and heaved a sigh of frustration. But then I took a moment to glance around the room. Everywhere I looked volunteers were crammed in at tables, sprawled on couches, perched on folding chairs or laying on the floor. Everyone had a phone pressed against their ear; half the room was jabbing in earnest. Every once in awhile we heard the ding! of a bell as someone signified that they'd gotten a No vote. And the rest of the room would flutter their hands in silent applause. Taking in the scene, I was filled with hope. I felt like I was part of history in the making. Turns out I didn't miss the civil rights movement after all.
So here are the stats from last night, and this is why we need you: 609 people pledged to vote No on Proposition 8. 7 people pledged to vote No and made a financial donation. 112 people told us that they were voting yes on Proposition 8. 1 person said that they were voting yes and made a financial contribution to the other side.
90 people were undecided. That's 90 undecided folks who learned more about the issue last night, due to our phone calls. That's 90 people who might take the time to go to the website and get the facts before casting their vote. And this election is going to be so close. Just a few of those 90 votes may be enough to tip the scales in our favor.
Now here's the troubling thing: Many people told us that they hadn't heard anything about Proposition 8 and didn't know what it was. So the message isn't reaching far enough. Even more troubling: several folks reported, "Yes, I support same-sex marriage, so I'm voting yes on Proposition 8." No, no, no! Granted, the language is a bit confusing, so we have to call more voters and make sure the message is clear.
Last night I learned that the opposition has out-funded us by 9 million dollars, which means that people are seeing more of their ads than ours. And because so many people are undecided or uninformed, it's really mission critical that we get our message out. The message is that all of us are worthy and deserving of equality, acceptance, respect and love.
So I urge you to participate in the phone banks, donate your time or your money. With less than a month till Election Day, our collective action is needed more urgently than ever before.
As a biracial woman, I often ponder the fact that I'm not too many generations removed from a time when it would have been illegal for my parents to marry. And then where would my brother and I be? My mom and dad waited for 5 years before having kids because they weren't sure the world was ready for us. And not everybody was. But could you look at me now and say that the love that brought me into this world was wrong? How can we look at anybody and say: The love you feel for that man, for that woman, is wrong?
Love is not wrong. You can't go wrong with love.
Please vote.
For more information, go to www.noonprop8.com .
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