The Color of Gun Control

So we're watching the news the other night, my honey and I, and he flipped to Fox News as he often does during his tour of the evening news. A real comedian, my husband. I like to think of Fox News as the Jerry Springer Show of cable news, whereas your 360 with Anderson Cooper is more your early-Phil Donohue. (Later he became a total warm glass of milk, but early Phil was a rich, chocolaty, berry-filled cab. Look it up.) We usually end up with Jon Stewart, who is the modern-day Walter Cronkite. It is what it is. Stewart takes the news about as seriously as he should, given the content, but like Cronkite he actually informs his audience with depth, thought, and a perverse sense of respect for the truth.
Anyway, I ramble and trail.

We were watching Fox News when they started blaring some infomercial for the NRA... I mean a 'news story' about gun control laws being revisited by the U.S. Supreme Court. Daley's ban on hand guns in Chicago was mentioned and as the reporter droned on indignantly about the loss of civil liberties, a video played of lawful, red-blooded Americans doing fun things with guns. In the background, boot-wearing dads helped their blonde little sons aim at cans in the backyard, they walked with their freeze-dried-haired wives through gun shows, and stood up against their faded red trucks holding rifles and spitting tobacco as they lamented the attack on their gun-toting ways. Very apple pie-ish.

As I'm watching all this I'm thinking the same thing I always think: "They're just so rural. They're not bad people. They don't understand city concerns about guns because they live in rural places where guns are as normal and doorknobs." I'm nothing if not devoted to seeing the other guy's point of view. It usually doesn't change my mind about a damn thing, but I'm willing to see his point.

But then Tony turned to me and said, "Can you imagine what a reversal you'd see from these people if those pictures were all of black men with their little black boys aiming guns at cans? Or Mexican men with their wives at gun shows? The whole conversation would be turned on its ear. It'd become 'They're taking over our country, threatening our womenfolk and our boys with guns everywhere!'"

I snickered back, "You're right! That would change the conversation, wouldn't it?"

And he said, "You want to effect gun control in this country? Have Acorn start registering poor, uneducated blacks and Hispanics for gun licenses. That'd do it."

And the more I thought about it, the more I thought he was right! The image we all have of people defending their gun rights is a Charleton Heston type, wearing flannel and sporting bad hair or a worse trucker cap. We don't think of a young black man in jeans and a Sean John tshirt. We certainly don't picture Julio and his son Paco toting guns through the mall on the weekends.

Maybe what it comes down to is that we figure Trey and Jorge aren't going to read the constitution. Because - have you read it? The 2nd Amendment states that "A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed."

Militia. Context schmontext, right? The origins of this amendment may be in dispute by some, and the current interpretation even moreso. But I'm sure we can agree that the right to bear arms was not intended to preempt the right of school-age children to travel to and from school without being in fear for their lives.

That's what's happening in Chicago, though, and our pathetic laws and even more pathetic enforcement devices are complicit in the murders of our children. Funny, though, that most of the children we are killing don't look like the kids in the gun rights videos. They're not blonde or freckled. They are black. They are poor and black and live in the city. And their mothers weep inconsolably, as would I if I lost my son. And their younger siblings grow up in fear, as would mine, if their big sister were shot down in the street near our home. Their communities suffer the loss of them, as would mine if my child were not able to grow up, work and re-invest in my neighborhood.
Its almost as if minority children are under attack by a persistent and dangerous threat that the army and the police cannot seem to control. Its a good thing, then, that we have rights under the 2nd amendment to protect our families - set up a well-regulated militia, if needed - and that right cannot be infringed. Now, all we have to do is make a video.

On Picking Up Chicks

Sam: 'Hey mommy, guess what I heard on the radio today.'

Me: 'What's that Sam?'

Sam: 'Like six different ways to pick up chicks!'

Me: 'Really?'

Sam: 'Yeah. Like at the supermarket - that's one place.'

Me: 'Oh yeah?' Totally not listening.

Sam: 'Yeah. And at a tupperware party!'

Me: 'Tupperware?' Paying some attention now.

Sam: 'Yeah. Tupperware parties are hot places to find chicks.'

Me: 'Hmmm. Never thought of that. You want cream cheese on this?'

Sam: 'Yeah. And you can even pick up chicks in - get this - its so funny - Church!!'

Me: 'Sam, you are not picking up chicks in church. Tie your shoe.'

Sam: 'Oh yes I am. It was on the radio!'

Me: 'Sam, you are not going to be picking up chicks anywhere. Tie your shoe.'

Sam: 'I am. I am going to pick up hot babes.'

Me: 'Sam, what are you going to pick them up for?' Looking directly at him now.

Sam: Long pause. 'I don't know,' slowly. 'They didn't say. What do hot chicks do?'

Me: 'Sam. Tie your shoe.'

Sam: 'OK. By the way, what is tupperware?'

Silence As Virtue?

My mom always said that to me when I was little. "Silence, baby," she would say, "is a virtue." That was my cue to pack up my noise and ship it elsewhere. In hindsight, I could have answered with 'patience is a virtue', but that likely would have resulted in collecting a righteous return on my bottom so it's probably better I just clammed up.

When I was very small I didn't even know what a 'verchoo' was. I had a faint idea that it had something to do with the Mary statue in church, but that theory was disproven when I learned to spell. Turned out, she was not the 'verchoon mother' I once thought she was. When I realized my mistake, I didn't want to publicize the gap in my knowledge by asking what a virtue was, especially since I'd, many times, nodded in agreement when I was told about this virtue or that. So onward I went, stoicly carrying a desire to have these oft-talked-about virtues even though I didn't know what they were. (This was oddly similar to my desire, later in life, to have 'vander-built' jeans, even though I didn't know why it mattered who built them.)

I was in a fourth grade class when I finally learned what a virtue was, from a nun who clearly hadn't acquired the 'patience' one. She gave a lecture on the seven virtues: chastity, temperence, charity, diligence, patience, kindness and humility. Finally satisfied! I knew what a virtue was. In essence, this was a fancy word with many meanings that could be expressed in its simplest form as 'good'. Patience is good, kindness is good, etc. etc. etc. Grown ups, I said to myself not for the first or last time, make things so complicated. I didn't think more about it for a very long time.

In high school, the lecture on virtues was repeated, this time by a most unassuming, soft-spoken nun who I've come to believe had acquired all of the Christian virtues. Her name was Sister Humiliata, naturally. She talked about how the process of acquiring virtues was not to be viewed as a triumph of the individual but as a gift of spirit to others. Very interesting. Unfortunately, I was sixteen and couldn't dwell on the importance of that message for too long. My hair required much more devotion than my spirit.

The lesson lingered though and recently the concept of virtue has come back to me, along with my mother's wry take on the most important of these to her - silence. I've mulled the healthcare debate, the economic crisis, the war strategies - everything - with this idea of the virtues.

And what I've come to is this: there are many different collections of virtues based on religion, culture and philosphies. They are all worthy of some study. But more importantly, they are all worthy of action. The virtues, the ones that work best for each of us, should serve as the standards by which we approach the big problems facing our country and our world.

In my case, I imagine the good that would come from a little 'Patience' in foreign relations. Add some 'Kindness' to that. Many civilizations believe 'Mercy' to be a virtue. Certainly in health care it must be so. And blessed be the Romans who added 'Humor' to the list. You couldn't watch one session of congressional debate without it. Learn from our Hindu friends that 'Reverence for Earth' is most definitely a virtue.

And what of silence? Is it a virtue? You could argue that it is not. You could hold that silence - in the face of deafening world hunger, poverty, suffering -is the cruelest of all the sins. Silence sent us to war. Silence can mean pain when what is called for is a loud cry. I wouldn't argue against that. But then, silence also offers something else - opportunity. When you stop speaking, you can listen. When you turn down the noise, you can think. Silence offers respite, serenity. And from that place you can wonder more honestly, perhaps more innocently. See a people filled with respect, honesty, wisdom - all virtues - and work toward a world community centered on justice and peace. Serve with honor, speak with restraint and work diligently. Offer a humble soul. Silence is a virtue, I agree. And in my quiet, this is the world I see.

Will It Ever End?

Remember when I said I wanted the seasons to realign correctly so I could get on with my 'fall' activities? I changed my mind. It's cold. I didn't wear socks today. And it's Monday. An ode follows, reminding me why I never became a poet.

The clouds rumble, tumble, plump.

A grey grey day all around all around.

A dull ache at the temple

looms but never lands.

Sidewalk.

Sweater.

Sipping.

Not fresh but dank.

Not crisp but cold.

Jeans.

Brown.

Must. Close. Eyes.

A snuggle-good book waits, waits, waits.

A mug yearns to be cradled importantly.

Feeling hollow.

Feeling too full.

The delicious density of an abbreviated slumber

rests on the lashes.

Flourescent lights.

A copier hums.

The day

Today

Monday

Will It Ever End?

I close my eyes and wait.

Sometimes Its Simple

My sister-in-law is beautiful, isn't she? Yes. She is. Simple as that.

A New Take On Seasonal Depression

My shoes are depressed. It's September. Its cloudy. School has started. Evenings are abbreviated and mornings are darker. It should be fall. But the day-to-day temperatures, like talk-show hosts on AM radio, refuse to agree with the prevailing logic. It should be fall, but it feels like summer. And I need someone to do something about it.

I need my seasons to stay in proper working order. This whole blending of seasons and cross-wind crap is not working for me. I need all four seasons, distinct, beautiful, and finite. Its why, despite - and over the loud objections of - my caribbean genetics, I live in Chicago. Four seasons. This year, however, the balm in the air will not cooperate. Late to arrive at the party, and late to leave, the summer air is wreaking havoc with my clock. My whole wardrobe selection process is suffering from dyslexia. I can't wear turquoise during this part of the year because, even though 81 degrees calls for the turquoise linen capris, September is a 'brown' month. Turquoise is August. But all my brown clothes are too warm for 81 degrees. Health care shmealth care, I can't get dressed for Pete's sake!

My meal-time choices are equally distressed. I'd like to start the grill, but not for hot dogs and corn-on-the-cob. No. It should be time for thick burgers or steaks. September is a hearty-meal-on-the-grill month, not a picnic-food month.

So, despite the pleasure with which my skin soaks in the delicious warm humid air, I have a very serious problem: I'm naked and I'm hungry. And it gets worse from there.

Not only do I have my clothes seasonally sorted and my menus mentally cataloged for seasonal rotation of meats, fruits and veggies, but I have my house decor boxed for the seasons and holidays (halloween/thanksgiving for fall, christmas for winter, easter for spring, and 4th of july for summer). Each of these categories requires approximately three months to run its course. After that, I'm all out. I need to shift to the next season or I start maniacally repeating stuff in random order. Watermelon and winter squash for dinner! AAAAAH. I can't do it!

What's more? It's disrupting the harmony among inatimates inside my home. You know that fall wreath is just whimpering away in that storage box, waiting for her turn to be pulled out, dusted off and given the place of honor on our front door. And that pink and green number I have out there now is so smug - practically purring with pleasure as she reigns over the front landscape. She knows she's getting extra time and she's loving every minute of it. Its not fair, I tell you. And I dread what will happen when those two cross paths in the transfer from storage to placement. It's not going to be pretty.

Now, I'm willing to negotiate. I'm not advocating for sleet and hail. Just a little weather shift in the seasonally appropriate direction. Make it low 70s during the day and low 60s at night. I'm fine with that. I can wear jeans, serve pot roast, have orange flowers in the dining room and it all works. As it stands, I'm fretting in front of my closet each morning with the brown shoe-boots pining away on a too-high-to-reach-for-every-day shelf, waiting to be called to work. They're depressed, I can tell. But the high today is going to be 78 and I'm wearing open-toes. Maybe next week.

I live in my promise

On September 11th, 2001, when all the world was burning down around me - or so it seemed - I was stunned into silence. Anyone who knows me knows how meaningful that is.

On September 12th, 2001, when all the world was stunned into silence around me - or I couldn't hear them - I was numbed to the point of inaction. Again, not my norm.

On September 13th, 2001, when all the world was grappling with what to do next - really, it was - I walked into my new home for the first time.

My husband was working from home. He wandered aimlessly from office to kitchen to nursery, where little ones breathed in and out, blissfully unaware that the world had been forever changed.

After a while, he returned to his desk and continued to numb his day away. As I watched, he began mindlessly flipping through neighobrhood listings, something real estate agents do all the time, just to waste time but still look busy and important. The phones were not ringing and, for once, we were thankful.

I had spent nearly the entire 'nap time' washing dishes, wiping, drying and then rewashing because of some invented flaw in the original cycle. Usually I tried to rest when the babies rested, but on that day, and for many days after, resting when so many others were restless with terror and tears seemed awful and unfeeling. I couldn't rest, so I just washed dishes.

As the babies were waking, my husband came to me with false enthusiasm, brimming with it rather garishly given the circumstances, and insisted we go see a house. He'd come across an oddball listing nearby and decided we needed to see it right away. We'd talked a little bit about buying a house after the twins were born, but we'd settled into a routine, albeit a chaotic one, and the issue had been back-burnered. Now, all of a sudden, it was the most important thing on my husband's agenda. He persisted. And I was too beaten down to refuse.

So we spent some time packing up the kids (when you have twins, age 1 and a 'big girl' age 3, getting to the front door requires packing) and made our way to the property just a few blocks away.

I think, my husband's initial idea was just to get out, to revive the family, wake us up and give us some sense of purpose, even if only for a few hours. But stepping out onto the sidewalk, being in the dead air of those silent days following the burning of our arrogance, was no comfort. Speaking, to fill the air with noise and nonsense, seemed irreverent. So we walked in silence.

When we got to the front of the house, we all looked up, as if called to the roof's peak by some herald, placed there to await our arrival. I won't blather on about the creepiness of the upside down cross that trims the front of the house, ending in the crux of the roof. But it was creepy. Years later, when we had the roof and trim re-done on the house, the 'capper' asked us if we wanted it removed. We both looked at each other and shook our heads 'no'. It belongs to the house, and to us, and to that moment when we first looked up.

We stepped in and breathed in the aura of someone else's home. It was plain, worn, a little odd in places, and old. For some reason, being inside seemed to captivate all of us. The twins - really my little girl, but the boy followed her everywhere - did everything they could to climb the stairs despite each step being about waist-high on their tiny, 13-month-old bodies. Lucy did what all little girls do in huge old houses - she pretended princess and bowed delicately to her imagined prince, before she escaped into a one-sided ballroom dance in the middle of the living room. I hemmed and fussed over the kitchen and Tony went straight to all the mechanicals. It really wasn't much of a house, all whitewashed and creaky.

When I looked out the dining room windows and noticed a faded red patio set and bushes practically encroaching on the spot where I stood inside, I called to my husband.

"Look," I told him, "you could probably make the house workable, but I don't want to be on top of my neighbors like that. I want space. We talked about this. I want a yard."

He smiled at me, a genuine smile. It took us both a second to enjoy it, because we were well into day three of having no ability whatsoever to express happiness.

"Come with me," he said gently. "You don't understand."

And he led me through the dining room, into the kitchen and out the back door.

"That is your yard," he motioned across the expanse I'd just frowned upon. "And so is this," and he swept his arm across the other side. "It's just what you've always wanted. I found it."
And I was overcome. The babies spilled out behind me and went about the business of claiming territory. There were roses and vines and trees and flowering plants and all sorts of pines and firs. This yard, this little secret space on this pained planet, was so full of love and life and beauty. I was overcome again.

Did you ever read 'The Secret Garden'? This was it, but somehow with an air of Gatsby too. It was serene and splendid, but alive and tingling. You could hear the tinkle of glasses from parties past and you could discern, barely, a perfume in the air, as if the remainder of a courtship still lingered among the flowers. You could feel the life in the garden and for the first time in days I - we all - felt alive again.

Needless to say, we were sold. It probably wouldn't have mattered what we had to do, we had to get it. If the garden hadn't done it (and it totally did) the fact that the small finial on the staircase leading up to the bedrooms came off in my hand - ala 'It's a Wonderful Life' - would have completely sealed the deal for me.

We went home awake, talking, jabbering really, because the rush of language that had been pent up for so many days came tripping out of each of us in gush and gab. Even the babies, I'm sure feeding off of our excitement, particpated in filling the walk home with the music of happiness and hope.

While my husband went about the business of completing forms and signing documents, I tended to the spiritual element of the home purchasing process. I closed my eyes, clasped my hands together, and promised. I promised God, of course, more out of practice than anything else, but with an element of urgency usually reserved for medical crises. But more importantly, I promised all those babies who lost their parents two days before, all the parents who lost their babies, all the weepers who posted futile notices and waited in vain, and the sweepers who tended the debris left behind by blameless and suited souls. I promised probably as deeply as I am able.

I promised I would live out loud, for all those whose lives had been muted. I would make that house a place where every day, the love we have for one another would be remembered and acknowledged, and spent generously, in case the day's events halted the next day's chance to do it again. I promised we would open that house to as many as would come, with all we could give, for as long as we could. I promised my babies would grow up in that house and, when they left it, it would be to change the world, even if only in the smallest ways, with their sunshine and shimmer. I promised I would tend that garden to the best of my ability to make sure that its secrets were kept and its magic was kept alive. I promised that if God saw fit to give me that house, that gift would be repayed in every way I could, with every breath I have, until I could pay no more.

Ironically, the day when I can pay no more may be coming sooner than I'd hoped. But for now, for as long as I can, I live in my promise.