My mother arrived yesterday bearing a box full of Korean food stuff. This island is paradise, indeed. However, the dearth of Asian foods offered is, for an Asian girl, quite shocking. For many years, there were two Chinese restaurants, one that looked dirtier and dingier than the most greasy Chinese fast food place in any other city. The other in Edgartown looked less dirty, but was always empty. I still don't know how either place stays in business since both still exist. We never ventured into either place until one July 4th when we were desperate to feed our son and went into the one that was cleaner. The meal was not memorable other than the fact the food was like food in most Chinese restaurants--greasy.
A few years ago, we noticed 'sushi chefs' being placed in various restaurants with menus offering fried seafood and French fries. I was skeptical, but was desperate for something Asian, so I went to the seafood store to order a spicy tuna roll made by the Vietnamese chef. It wasn't offensive, but the price was steep enough for it to be as good as anything on the menu of Chef Morimoto's restaurant. This year marked another turning point for the island, as it catches up with the rest of the world, with the first Thai restaurant opening on Circuit Avenue. Again, the food isn't memorable, but will suffice when I'm starved for something with a bit of spice.
My mom brought enough food with spice to tie me over till I get off the island. My son, who prefers Korean food, is beside himself with the anticipation of what my mother has brought to feed her only grandson. She is making him Kim Bap, the Korean version of sushi. I used to buy this in any supermarket in Korea town, but will now have to make for him since New York's Korea town is one short block on 32nd.
It is breathtaking to watch your mother shower your child with so much affection. In some ways, it is a relief to have her attentions focused on someone other than me. Her unadulterated joy in her grandson has healed any, and all, wounds that we may have inflicted on each other as we negotiated the challenging terrain of mothers and daughters. I'm grateful she's alive and healthy enough to enjoy this time with my son, for them to create memories together. I can see the wonder in her eyes as she watches me 'mother' my child--a role that is hard for her to connect with her baby. There is, of course, some judgment about how I do it. But all in all, I think she is amazed and proud that I am an attentive parent.
Most of us spend our lives trying to undo whatever patterns and traditions our parents foisted on us, for better or worse. If your relationship with your parents was fraught with drama, then the need to undo it all can consume all of your focus. This need to redo, rather than undo, takes on new significance when you have your own child. They say raising a child is a way for us to redo our childhoods, making up for whatever we felt had been lacking. The Boomer generation has spent their entire adulthood, most profoundly noticeable in the raising of their children, demolishing the strictures of their rules laden upbringing. Whether such a thorough demotion has produced a happier outcome still remains to be seen. Their children may now spend their adulthood trying to create more rules and boundaries in an attempt to gain some control over their lives.
For me, my child's entrance has brought such a yearning to recreate the special memories of my own childhood. And this island was one piece in that need. My parent's participation is another piece since I never knew either set of grandparents. My son will, without doubt, spend his life trying to undo or redo whatever we had done. This island may be the only part of his life that he may want to replicate for his own kids--notice the use of the plural here since I'm always hoping he'll have a large brood for me to shower with love. That's what is so ironic about all of this. Grandparenting seems to be the time when you relinquish all of your expectations and just revel in loving, something parenting doesn't allow. So, I'm grateful to have given my parents this opportunity to be grandparents since it is a way for them to forgive themselves of whatever disappointments they may have about their own parenting of me--their child.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Monday, July 30, 2007
Clambake at Eastville Beach
My friend from grad school arrived with his brood--two boys, wife--on Thursday. He and his family have been coming to see us here since our very first summer. It was the perfect excuse for he and I to get together, something that seemed impossible to do when I was in LA. It has been 8 years since we met during our fist semester at grad school and we became friends, much in the way friendships get established--dinners, lunches, thoughtful conversations, sharing of our many ups and downs, and sharing in the celebrations of our lives.
What is wonderful about our relationship is how much our two families blend so well together. He and my husband like each other. I adore his wife. Our kids love one another and play well together. Everyone knows what a unique experience this is for each member of the family to get along with their counterpart in another family. There is nothing worse than to push my husband to get along with the spouse of a good friend of mine when they, so obviously, don't have anything in common other than the friendship between their wives. What's worse than the spousal rejection is that of your child. We have had painful situations where our child couldn't get along with the child of the couple that we adored. And whose child was just a brat, putting a strain on the burgeoning friendship.
Again, it is that combination of timing and chemistry that determines how any of this will happen. Our boys, despite seeing one another only once a year, have this very strong bond. Each are individually so different from the other, but they negotiate these differences without the use of physical fights or temper tantrums. At this point, this annual yearly ritual on the Vineyard is as much for us, the adults, as it is now for our kids. The departure is always sad, a few tears shed, although this time there were promises of trips to visit during the year, all so manageable from Boston to New York.
We usually finish off the weekend with a catered clambake at Eastville Beach, a strip of sand that looks out on to the harbor of Vineyard Haven. We take the food, all of it delicious, to the beach where we throw down large blankets, sand toys, and coolers of wine. The kids wander by the water's edge, setting up games of badminton or just throwing rocks out into the water. It is something my son talks about endlessly during the year, and something he asks to do once we get to the Vineyard.
This year's festivities were cut short by a mishap, a trip to the emergency room, and lots of parental guilt as well as guilt by our friends. Thankfully, it was nothing dire, each of us with enough sense to enjoy the last evening despite it happening. This event, more than the years of affection, showed me how special this friendship was to our lives. These last four days will become another small piece in the mosaic of our two families.
I always dream of growing old with my husband. And there are friends in my life that make me wish for the same thing, to grow old with these people, so that we mark our friendship in decades, not just years.
What is wonderful about our relationship is how much our two families blend so well together. He and my husband like each other. I adore his wife. Our kids love one another and play well together. Everyone knows what a unique experience this is for each member of the family to get along with their counterpart in another family. There is nothing worse than to push my husband to get along with the spouse of a good friend of mine when they, so obviously, don't have anything in common other than the friendship between their wives. What's worse than the spousal rejection is that of your child. We have had painful situations where our child couldn't get along with the child of the couple that we adored. And whose child was just a brat, putting a strain on the burgeoning friendship.
Again, it is that combination of timing and chemistry that determines how any of this will happen. Our boys, despite seeing one another only once a year, have this very strong bond. Each are individually so different from the other, but they negotiate these differences without the use of physical fights or temper tantrums. At this point, this annual yearly ritual on the Vineyard is as much for us, the adults, as it is now for our kids. The departure is always sad, a few tears shed, although this time there were promises of trips to visit during the year, all so manageable from Boston to New York.
We usually finish off the weekend with a catered clambake at Eastville Beach, a strip of sand that looks out on to the harbor of Vineyard Haven. We take the food, all of it delicious, to the beach where we throw down large blankets, sand toys, and coolers of wine. The kids wander by the water's edge, setting up games of badminton or just throwing rocks out into the water. It is something my son talks about endlessly during the year, and something he asks to do once we get to the Vineyard.
This year's festivities were cut short by a mishap, a trip to the emergency room, and lots of parental guilt as well as guilt by our friends. Thankfully, it was nothing dire, each of us with enough sense to enjoy the last evening despite it happening. This event, more than the years of affection, showed me how special this friendship was to our lives. These last four days will become another small piece in the mosaic of our two families.
I always dream of growing old with my husband. And there are friends in my life that make me wish for the same thing, to grow old with these people, so that we mark our friendship in decades, not just years.
Friday, July 27, 2007
LA -- So Far Away
It's now nearly a month since we departed LA for good, just three days shy of that one month mark. The time has passed swiftly, despite spending our days idling away on the beach. The water is now warmer. The days longer as the sun sets well past 8:00 PM. I've spoken to two friends from LA since leaving. All of the emotions associated with life in LA is packed away, almost neatly. I haven't yet reached the state of nostalgia or sentimentality, but each day brings new emotional distance, a distance I had craved and now have. The pull of glancing backwards is almost gone. I know our New York apartment is getting organized as my husband opens and unpacks boxes after work. He now views his life entirely as a New Yorker, LA now just a part of his past. I, for obvious reasons, can't say the tether to my previous life is that easily severed. I am still between places, between lives.
I am cherishing my time here on the Vineyard. It is the perfect antidote for the frenzy and emotional turbulence of the past few months. This island, our family oasis, is what any doctor would have prescribed. But it is still strange to be so in between lives. It is as if my life is a perfect triangle, LA, the Vineyard, and New York. And I've only made it from one point to the second with a wait before completing the triangle. Yet each year on this island brings another level of ties to this place as more faces from the beach now bear names, sometimes even phone numbers getting exchanged, promises for drinks made. One of those familiar faces now with a name searched for my son on the beach. She found me and asked us to come sing 'happy birthday' for her daughter's 6th birthday. Each of us was given a perfectly made cupcake with pink frosting and a maraschino cherry on top. It is these moments of connection that weds our family to this island, our family now becoming part of this legacy of those who summer here.
All of our mail, forwarded from LA to New York, now arrives bearing yellow stickers with our new address. I've received a stack of New Yorkers waiting to be read. Each of this is a daily reminder that our lives are unfolding in this new place, in this new era, so to speak.
I am cherishing my time here on the Vineyard. It is the perfect antidote for the frenzy and emotional turbulence of the past few months. This island, our family oasis, is what any doctor would have prescribed. But it is still strange to be so in between lives. It is as if my life is a perfect triangle, LA, the Vineyard, and New York. And I've only made it from one point to the second with a wait before completing the triangle. Yet each year on this island brings another level of ties to this place as more faces from the beach now bear names, sometimes even phone numbers getting exchanged, promises for drinks made. One of those familiar faces now with a name searched for my son on the beach. She found me and asked us to come sing 'happy birthday' for her daughter's 6th birthday. Each of us was given a perfectly made cupcake with pink frosting and a maraschino cherry on top. It is these moments of connection that weds our family to this island, our family now becoming part of this legacy of those who summer here.
All of our mail, forwarded from LA to New York, now arrives bearing yellow stickers with our new address. I've received a stack of New Yorkers waiting to be read. Each of this is a daily reminder that our lives are unfolding in this new place, in this new era, so to speak.
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Vegetarianism--If Only I didn't Like Meat So Much
During my video viewing, I watched "Fast Food Nation," the little seen movie about the corrupt ways of the Fast Food Chains that spring up faster than weeds in a untended lawn. Vegetarianism is something I never thought much about. Let's face it, I'm a girl who loves steak, hamburgers, lamb chops, veal, and Korean ribs. And like most carnivores, I never let my mind ponder about where meat came from, what living being it had been before arriving on my plate, the perfectly cooked T-Bone steak. It was flesh, of the animal kind, but I didn't let myself picture how this gentle cow grazed in an open field before ending up on my plate.
This movie, in its attempts to open our eyes to the horrors of meat packing factories and fast food chains, goes out of its way to show us the gory route of cow to T-Bone. To say it was wholly unappetizing would be an understatement. It gave me pause about my lip-smacking appreciation for steak. I doubt this one movie could turn me into a Peta member, but it does make you think about the food chain of what we consume and where and how this food arrives, so neatly packaged to our local grocery stores.
And in truth, this applies to all of our food. Slaughter houses, for fowl or meat, are gory and cruel. Whether they are more so now than in the past is what I don't know. But shouldn't we be critical of all the practices taken by food producers? The exploitative practices of agro-business using cheap labor, usually of the undocumented kind, is no more above judgment than the slaughter houses. The agricultural industry is known to be one of the largest consumers of fuel, and emitter of carbon emissions. Yet, it's rare for anyone to protest strawberries.
The process of food production has been corrupted by so many factors. It isn't natural for us to consume watermelon, a summer fruit, all year long. That one watermelon took so much fuel, not to mention the human toll of workers, for it to arrive at your local Ralphs, A & P, or Stop and Shop in December. Yet, none of us give much thought to any of this since we've now gotten accustomed to the conveniance--key word here--of having summer fruits all year long.
For one day, I thought about not eating meat. But for one day only. But if I were to become sanctimonious about meat, shouldn't I be as strident about all food?
This movie, in its attempts to open our eyes to the horrors of meat packing factories and fast food chains, goes out of its way to show us the gory route of cow to T-Bone. To say it was wholly unappetizing would be an understatement. It gave me pause about my lip-smacking appreciation for steak. I doubt this one movie could turn me into a Peta member, but it does make you think about the food chain of what we consume and where and how this food arrives, so neatly packaged to our local grocery stores.
And in truth, this applies to all of our food. Slaughter houses, for fowl or meat, are gory and cruel. Whether they are more so now than in the past is what I don't know. But shouldn't we be critical of all the practices taken by food producers? The exploitative practices of agro-business using cheap labor, usually of the undocumented kind, is no more above judgment than the slaughter houses. The agricultural industry is known to be one of the largest consumers of fuel, and emitter of carbon emissions. Yet, it's rare for anyone to protest strawberries.
The process of food production has been corrupted by so many factors. It isn't natural for us to consume watermelon, a summer fruit, all year long. That one watermelon took so much fuel, not to mention the human toll of workers, for it to arrive at your local Ralphs, A & P, or Stop and Shop in December. Yet, none of us give much thought to any of this since we've now gotten accustomed to the conveniance--key word here--of having summer fruits all year long.
For one day, I thought about not eating meat. But for one day only. But if I were to become sanctimonious about meat, shouldn't I be as strident about all food?
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Camp Counselor Mom
My son had his first sleep over with two girls, which means I had my first sleep over as Mom. They are our friends' daughters, who were only too happy to sleep at our house--or so we thought. I threw burgers on the grill, despite my son's skepticism that I knew how to use the grill. We had a picnic on the floor, topped off with homemade banana splits. We put in a movie, which they watched dressed in their pajamas. I can remember three summers ago when the girls and my son were here in this same house. My son and the youngest girl were just walking, barely talking. Now, they talk, sounding like young adults.
I made them hot chocolate, which they slurped as they watched their movie. Breakfast will be pancakes with sausages and bacon. As overwhelmed as I get with one child, I romanticize the idea of being the Camp Counselor Mom, who has kids running in a and out of the house, mealtimes just one big scream fest. Somehow this idea, as everyone knows, is simply ridiculous. As they say, know thyself, and this self, I, do not have the constitution for such a scene. I could probably hold myself together till the meal was finished, the table a scene of destruction. The end of each day would require this Mom having a healthy cocktail or Xanax, or both.
It's funny how families, except in certain religious groups, have shrunk, so that any family with three kids is considered humongous. I know when I run into families with three or more kids, I find myself marveling at the sheer audacity of the parents and then look at them askance as I think about the work, cost, fatigue, and emotional work to raise such a large brood. Two seems to be the number that everyone strives for, the only child viewed less now than in the past as a condition, choice, made, or made for you, for a host of reasons. I never thought I'd have an only child since I am an only child. But motherhood was more challenging than even I, the realist, pragmatist, had thought possible. Having waited to have our first, by the time I felt ready--emotionally, physically--to have another, it became too late. I'm sure if I put my mind to it, I could have another child. However, the idea of having an infant at the age of 40 seems wrong for me.
It's funny though. As much as I complain about motherhood, my son and I are enjoying our alone time together. There is no Tia, his Dad in New York, only us, in a sense, rediscovering one another. I watch him morphing into an idea of the man he will be. Like all parents, I yearn for him to be shielded from the bruising punches life sometimes offers. But I know that is impossible. And like my parents, and every other parent, I will have to watch him suffer as all of us do.
The girls decided, actually the oldest, that she couldn't spend the entire night here. So, calls were made. Their parents arrived. My son shed tears of disappointment about his first sleepover turning into the, "the worst sleepover--his words," ever. After the girls had left, my son tucked in after reading his bedtime books, I sat down. I didn't have a drink or a Xanax, or both together, but simply sat.
I made them hot chocolate, which they slurped as they watched their movie. Breakfast will be pancakes with sausages and bacon. As overwhelmed as I get with one child, I romanticize the idea of being the Camp Counselor Mom, who has kids running in a and out of the house, mealtimes just one big scream fest. Somehow this idea, as everyone knows, is simply ridiculous. As they say, know thyself, and this self, I, do not have the constitution for such a scene. I could probably hold myself together till the meal was finished, the table a scene of destruction. The end of each day would require this Mom having a healthy cocktail or Xanax, or both.
It's funny how families, except in certain religious groups, have shrunk, so that any family with three kids is considered humongous. I know when I run into families with three or more kids, I find myself marveling at the sheer audacity of the parents and then look at them askance as I think about the work, cost, fatigue, and emotional work to raise such a large brood. Two seems to be the number that everyone strives for, the only child viewed less now than in the past as a condition, choice, made, or made for you, for a host of reasons. I never thought I'd have an only child since I am an only child. But motherhood was more challenging than even I, the realist, pragmatist, had thought possible. Having waited to have our first, by the time I felt ready--emotionally, physically--to have another, it became too late. I'm sure if I put my mind to it, I could have another child. However, the idea of having an infant at the age of 40 seems wrong for me.
It's funny though. As much as I complain about motherhood, my son and I are enjoying our alone time together. There is no Tia, his Dad in New York, only us, in a sense, rediscovering one another. I watch him morphing into an idea of the man he will be. Like all parents, I yearn for him to be shielded from the bruising punches life sometimes offers. But I know that is impossible. And like my parents, and every other parent, I will have to watch him suffer as all of us do.
The girls decided, actually the oldest, that she couldn't spend the entire night here. So, calls were made. Their parents arrived. My son shed tears of disappointment about his first sleepover turning into the, "the worst sleepover--his words," ever. After the girls had left, my son tucked in after reading his bedtime books, I sat down. I didn't have a drink or a Xanax, or both together, but simply sat.
Monday, July 23, 2007
Jesus Camp
Since I have so few cable channels here, I rent videos that I've wanted to see, but never did. I recently rented a documentary entitled, "Jesus Camp." The movie was eye opening, and in truth a bit terrifying. The film follows Evangelical Christian children, ages 7-13, who are devout in their faith and beliefs. The film is set in Missouri, a place I've never visited, and after this movie, highly doubt will be placed on my list of 'must visit'.
The minister in the film is a woman, whose preaching is in the vein of traditional Evangelicals, yet with a message tailored for kids. There is the impassioned rhetoric, lots of Jesus references, lots of talk about the devil, but with the use of props. She feels that kids are the perfect vessels for God's message. Hmmm. Where does one start? I've written about my own faith, and my own practice of my faith. Part of what I appreciate about Catholicism is its rituals, which are theatrical in a quiet way. A Mass is devoid of the drama that other Protestant faiths seem to use in place of rituals, particularly in the Evangelical Churches. No one faints during a Mass unless they are suffering a true medical emergency. Any tears shed by the Parishioners is subdued, not part of the theater of the service.
As a Christian, watching this movie made me question how my own Christianity differed so greatly from everyone that this movie followed. My Christianity, as I've been taught, is about compassion, forgiveness, acceptance, and stewardship. It is not about judgment, exhortations against 'sinners'--basically everyone that doesn't believe what I believe, sanctimony, political savvy, and proselytizing. It was terribly distressing to see how faith is being used as the leverage against all those things that make a society diverse, stimulating, and challenging, namely all the arts, and personal freedoms. Watching the fervor in kids so young was eye opening. Also, I had no idea that "speaking in tongues" was something that actually happened, and apparently with some frequency in Evangelical churches. I'd always thought this was something that happened in medieval times and certainly not today in the 21st Century and in a place like Missouri.
This "camp" was a far cry from the church retreats I attended where breaking the rules was part of the expectation as we boarded buses headed for those woodsy camps. These church retreats were where I had some of the most fun, involving boys, sneaking in beers, and pranks against one another. In truth, I actually can't remember any of the religious lessons we were there to learn. The only signs that this was a religious week were the hour daily mass and the prayers said before each meal. The rest of our time was spent having fun, breaking up for volleyball games, swimming, and listening to cassette tapes of the newest music on boom boxes. We weren't listening to Christian Rock, but instead we were obsessed with Michael Jackson's album, Thriller. I think we also listened to tons of Journey--it was the early 80's--and Foreigner.
The funniest moment of the documentary was when the preacher admonished the kids for reading Harry Potter since he, the character, was a sorcerer, and therefore doing the work of the Devil. Frightening, isn't it? These kids read Christian books, listen to Christian music--who knew there was Christian rap? Their entire world, and particularly cultural world, is experienced through this very narrow lens of Christianity. They are not allowed to dance unless it is expressly for God. One little girl talked about how she loves to dance--to really bad Christian music--but how she has to make sure she's not dancing for vanity, but dancing with God's consent. She was a mere 8 or 9 years old, her world already defined in the narrowest definition of what is virtuous and what is not. Most home schooled kids are Evangelicals, their parent's way of insuring their kids' piety by controlling what they learn. Creationism, anyone? Global warning--most of these families drive large, gas guzzling SUV's--is fictional propaganda created by "liberals." There is no Global warning, instead all of the severe weather is God's work as punishment for a world filled with 'sinners'. I believe our President, whom they adore and admire, used this same argument as he went about demolishing any environmental gains we had made as a country. Although, he, I'm afraid, is less moved by faith as by the big pockets of special interests. So, as these Christians pray, bring on the hurricanes, bring on the drought, bring on the flooding, bring it all on because when the world explodes--isn't that what the Old Testament says basically--they will be saved or be guaranteed their entrance into the Holy Land while the rest of us will be extinguished.
As a parent, I doubt I will allow my son to listen to all the explicit rap, especially that are misogynistic and violent. I am also the mean mommy monitor about movies since I find so few of them appropriate in the messages I want him to be exposed to. We already know he will not be allowed video games or his own computer. When I think about it, I spend most of my time limiting his exposure to a culture that is saturated in bad taste, violence, gender stereotypes, and hyper sexuality. Hmmm. Am I that different from those Evangelical parents, who have decided that nothing popular culture has to offer is in line with their beliefs? So, my beliefs are shaped less by my Christian faith as it is by feminism, humanism, and an aesthetic snobbishness, yet I censor like all those people I deemed, "Crazy."
Perhaps this religious fervor that has taken hold in the center of our country is in response to all the excesses of our current culture? As rules about previous social taboos gets relaxed, particularly in media, the greater the divide. I am a person of faith, but also an artist. I am liberal, yet find myself censoring everything my child views, reads, and buys. Does that mean I'm merely steps away from looking for a church that offers protection from all that seems wrong with our world? And a teeny step away from speaking in tongues?
The minister in the film is a woman, whose preaching is in the vein of traditional Evangelicals, yet with a message tailored for kids. There is the impassioned rhetoric, lots of Jesus references, lots of talk about the devil, but with the use of props. She feels that kids are the perfect vessels for God's message. Hmmm. Where does one start? I've written about my own faith, and my own practice of my faith. Part of what I appreciate about Catholicism is its rituals, which are theatrical in a quiet way. A Mass is devoid of the drama that other Protestant faiths seem to use in place of rituals, particularly in the Evangelical Churches. No one faints during a Mass unless they are suffering a true medical emergency. Any tears shed by the Parishioners is subdued, not part of the theater of the service.
As a Christian, watching this movie made me question how my own Christianity differed so greatly from everyone that this movie followed. My Christianity, as I've been taught, is about compassion, forgiveness, acceptance, and stewardship. It is not about judgment, exhortations against 'sinners'--basically everyone that doesn't believe what I believe, sanctimony, political savvy, and proselytizing. It was terribly distressing to see how faith is being used as the leverage against all those things that make a society diverse, stimulating, and challenging, namely all the arts, and personal freedoms. Watching the fervor in kids so young was eye opening. Also, I had no idea that "speaking in tongues" was something that actually happened, and apparently with some frequency in Evangelical churches. I'd always thought this was something that happened in medieval times and certainly not today in the 21st Century and in a place like Missouri.
This "camp" was a far cry from the church retreats I attended where breaking the rules was part of the expectation as we boarded buses headed for those woodsy camps. These church retreats were where I had some of the most fun, involving boys, sneaking in beers, and pranks against one another. In truth, I actually can't remember any of the religious lessons we were there to learn. The only signs that this was a religious week were the hour daily mass and the prayers said before each meal. The rest of our time was spent having fun, breaking up for volleyball games, swimming, and listening to cassette tapes of the newest music on boom boxes. We weren't listening to Christian Rock, but instead we were obsessed with Michael Jackson's album, Thriller. I think we also listened to tons of Journey--it was the early 80's--and Foreigner.
The funniest moment of the documentary was when the preacher admonished the kids for reading Harry Potter since he, the character, was a sorcerer, and therefore doing the work of the Devil. Frightening, isn't it? These kids read Christian books, listen to Christian music--who knew there was Christian rap? Their entire world, and particularly cultural world, is experienced through this very narrow lens of Christianity. They are not allowed to dance unless it is expressly for God. One little girl talked about how she loves to dance--to really bad Christian music--but how she has to make sure she's not dancing for vanity, but dancing with God's consent. She was a mere 8 or 9 years old, her world already defined in the narrowest definition of what is virtuous and what is not. Most home schooled kids are Evangelicals, their parent's way of insuring their kids' piety by controlling what they learn. Creationism, anyone? Global warning--most of these families drive large, gas guzzling SUV's--is fictional propaganda created by "liberals." There is no Global warning, instead all of the severe weather is God's work as punishment for a world filled with 'sinners'. I believe our President, whom they adore and admire, used this same argument as he went about demolishing any environmental gains we had made as a country. Although, he, I'm afraid, is less moved by faith as by the big pockets of special interests. So, as these Christians pray, bring on the hurricanes, bring on the drought, bring on the flooding, bring it all on because when the world explodes--isn't that what the Old Testament says basically--they will be saved or be guaranteed their entrance into the Holy Land while the rest of us will be extinguished.
As a parent, I doubt I will allow my son to listen to all the explicit rap, especially that are misogynistic and violent. I am also the mean mommy monitor about movies since I find so few of them appropriate in the messages I want him to be exposed to. We already know he will not be allowed video games or his own computer. When I think about it, I spend most of my time limiting his exposure to a culture that is saturated in bad taste, violence, gender stereotypes, and hyper sexuality. Hmmm. Am I that different from those Evangelical parents, who have decided that nothing popular culture has to offer is in line with their beliefs? So, my beliefs are shaped less by my Christian faith as it is by feminism, humanism, and an aesthetic snobbishness, yet I censor like all those people I deemed, "Crazy."
Perhaps this religious fervor that has taken hold in the center of our country is in response to all the excesses of our current culture? As rules about previous social taboos gets relaxed, particularly in media, the greater the divide. I am a person of faith, but also an artist. I am liberal, yet find myself censoring everything my child views, reads, and buys. Does that mean I'm merely steps away from looking for a church that offers protection from all that seems wrong with our world? And a teeny step away from speaking in tongues?
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Babysitter--Cultural Contrast
Three summers ago, we lucked into a babysitter, really a 'Mommy's Helper' on Martha's Vineyard. She was 14, here for the summer. Her paternal grandparents owned many acres on Chappaquiddick--unfortunately known for Edward Kennedy's alcoholic-induced fatal car wreck, the event that relegated him forever to the Senate. Each of the grandkids came for the summers to work, to go to the beach, to spend time with their grandparents. So, she came to us to be with our son as we went to the beach. And she's come back ever since as our summer sitter. She is now 16, going on 17, but with the maturity of someone far older.
The contrast of her against the usual nanny in LA is something worth commenting on. She is blond, blue-eyed, All American, and from Utah. Her father and mother became Mormon, and this religious faith has served as the foundation for their family. She indulges in all the teenage pursuits of dating, text messaging, and worrying about her weight, but without the precociousness of most teens that are exposed to far too much too soon. She is a wonderful combination of emotional maturity, yet untouched by boredom bred from privilege. College looms on the horizon, so most of our conversations are about how to get her academic life organized so the application process is not hellish. Her life, I imagine, will meander with some disappointments, but in the end will be much like most of ours: school, career, marriage, and kids. Her goal of becoming a pediatrician feels right when I watch her patiently listening to my son prattling on or demanding she go in the water again for the hundredth time that day. She will have opportunities that she won't even realize are gifts until it is much too late, a difficult lesson each of us learns.
Her life is, and will be, vastly different than the life of our Tia's pre-pubescent daughter, who already shows the lapses in educational opportunities and exposure that will relegate her to a life that will always be paces behind that of our summer sitter. The inequity is, I'm afraid, what our country has become.
I say this, knowing that even for our summer sitter, she faces challenges, perhaps not as steep as our Tia's daughter, but challenges nonetheless. OK. Let's put it in perspective, her desire to attend an elite, or semi-elite university is a far cry from a child, whose own educational future is dubious. If our Tia's daughter survives the current expectation of Latino students to drop out, or worse, to become young mothers, she may be able to propel herself to SMC, dreaming of getting to a Cal State for a BA, all of which will take her an average of five years, but more likely six or seven. Her BA from a fifth tier level school, if our current trend holds true, will enable her to get a job in some service department of a major company. She will be the voice on the other end of the phone when we call about our credit card bills or subscriptions. We will immediately recognize the accent as "Hispanic or Latino." If she's computer savvy, she may end up as Tech support, her voice among all of those with accents that are foreign, all evoking the exoticism of a world remote and distant. Her life will be different, hopefully an improvement from her parent's, but in the end, still on the outside margins to the epicenter of power and privilege of our society.
For our summer sitter, her dreams of university, beyond the state university most of her siblings attended, is achievable as long as she is able to maintain her grades. This jump from public university to private will be what determines whether her life will be middle class or better. Again, her life will still be paces ahead of our Tia's daughter, for the most obvious reasons, even as a Mormon.
The East Coast, unlike its Left Coast counterpart, is full of young children being pushed around its streets by West Indian nannies. These women, dark brown in color, are replicating our country's legacy of Black women raising white children. For us, this seismic shift, is something we are wrapping our heads around. The one advantage of being in LA was that our child's consciousness was taught, for better or worse, that those who 'served' him and others like him were Latino or Filipino. And so, for the first five years of his life, he has been shielded from our country's legacy of the Black woman as caretaker. Now, that is all changing as we move to New York where most babysitters in the city are women from islands far away, whose voices have the lilt of aqua colored waters.
Knowing all of the complexities of this is around the corner, I am hugely relieved and grateful for our summer sitter. Her time with our son has been invaluable in the conscious or unconscious information kids take in, especially at this age. He has understood that babysitters are many colors, ages, and sizes. They serve different functions, depending on the person and situation. His relationship with his Tia, who was more like his second mother, was that of parent and child. His relationship with his Summer sitter is that of friends. Yes, there is the gender stereotype that we are reinforcing since all of them are women. We did have a Manny for a brief period, but I'm afraid it was too brief to have made a difference. So, if we could just find the perfect Manny--Mary Poppins as a Man--then life would be perfect.
The contrast of her against the usual nanny in LA is something worth commenting on. She is blond, blue-eyed, All American, and from Utah. Her father and mother became Mormon, and this religious faith has served as the foundation for their family. She indulges in all the teenage pursuits of dating, text messaging, and worrying about her weight, but without the precociousness of most teens that are exposed to far too much too soon. She is a wonderful combination of emotional maturity, yet untouched by boredom bred from privilege. College looms on the horizon, so most of our conversations are about how to get her academic life organized so the application process is not hellish. Her life, I imagine, will meander with some disappointments, but in the end will be much like most of ours: school, career, marriage, and kids. Her goal of becoming a pediatrician feels right when I watch her patiently listening to my son prattling on or demanding she go in the water again for the hundredth time that day. She will have opportunities that she won't even realize are gifts until it is much too late, a difficult lesson each of us learns.
Her life is, and will be, vastly different than the life of our Tia's pre-pubescent daughter, who already shows the lapses in educational opportunities and exposure that will relegate her to a life that will always be paces behind that of our summer sitter. The inequity is, I'm afraid, what our country has become.
I say this, knowing that even for our summer sitter, she faces challenges, perhaps not as steep as our Tia's daughter, but challenges nonetheless. OK. Let's put it in perspective, her desire to attend an elite, or semi-elite university is a far cry from a child, whose own educational future is dubious. If our Tia's daughter survives the current expectation of Latino students to drop out, or worse, to become young mothers, she may be able to propel herself to SMC, dreaming of getting to a Cal State for a BA, all of which will take her an average of five years, but more likely six or seven. Her BA from a fifth tier level school, if our current trend holds true, will enable her to get a job in some service department of a major company. She will be the voice on the other end of the phone when we call about our credit card bills or subscriptions. We will immediately recognize the accent as "Hispanic or Latino." If she's computer savvy, she may end up as Tech support, her voice among all of those with accents that are foreign, all evoking the exoticism of a world remote and distant. Her life will be different, hopefully an improvement from her parent's, but in the end, still on the outside margins to the epicenter of power and privilege of our society.
For our summer sitter, her dreams of university, beyond the state university most of her siblings attended, is achievable as long as she is able to maintain her grades. This jump from public university to private will be what determines whether her life will be middle class or better. Again, her life will still be paces ahead of our Tia's daughter, for the most obvious reasons, even as a Mormon.
The East Coast, unlike its Left Coast counterpart, is full of young children being pushed around its streets by West Indian nannies. These women, dark brown in color, are replicating our country's legacy of Black women raising white children. For us, this seismic shift, is something we are wrapping our heads around. The one advantage of being in LA was that our child's consciousness was taught, for better or worse, that those who 'served' him and others like him were Latino or Filipino. And so, for the first five years of his life, he has been shielded from our country's legacy of the Black woman as caretaker. Now, that is all changing as we move to New York where most babysitters in the city are women from islands far away, whose voices have the lilt of aqua colored waters.
Knowing all of the complexities of this is around the corner, I am hugely relieved and grateful for our summer sitter. Her time with our son has been invaluable in the conscious or unconscious information kids take in, especially at this age. He has understood that babysitters are many colors, ages, and sizes. They serve different functions, depending on the person and situation. His relationship with his Tia, who was more like his second mother, was that of parent and child. His relationship with his Summer sitter is that of friends. Yes, there is the gender stereotype that we are reinforcing since all of them are women. We did have a Manny for a brief period, but I'm afraid it was too brief to have made a difference. So, if we could just find the perfect Manny--Mary Poppins as a Man--then life would be perfect.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)