My apologies to all of you who plan, organize, and/or attend your 25th high school reunion. I sort of get where you’re coming from, but you’ll have to write me off your list. I’m not going, and you can’t make me.
I have fond memories of my six years at Charlotte Latin School, and there’s no one from the class of 1984 for whom I harbor the slightest feelings of ill will. Even those two boys who played a mean trick on me in Founder’s Hall to steal my tootsie rolls in seventh grade. Or the people who rigged my locker so when I opened it everything would fall out onto my feet. Or the two girls who stole my lunch money during assembly. Or the kids who wouldn’t speak to me at school but called me at home at 10:00 at night to ask for answers to homework. Or the girls who consistently chose me last for teams in P.E. Or my best friend of five years who dumped me senior year and hid in the photography dark room with her brother so she wouldn’t have to talk to me. She, at least, had good reason to shun me, though at the time I was too depressed to realize it.
With the exception of my former best friend, these kids were garden-variety bullies or snobs with trust funds, and I am certain karma took care of them long ago. Honestly, I hope every one of my former classmates is now happy, healthy, and successful—especially the boyfriend I so gracelessly dumped for reasons that had nothing to do with him. I do not, however, particularly want to see them again.
Don’t you think it would be a tad awkward?
I’d be delighted to have dinner with the old gang. I belonged to a group of kids who didn’t belong with the jocks or nerds or cheerleaders or troublemakers. We were eclectic and, I thought, much more interesting. Tim took me to both proms, introduced me to my husband, and was the best man at our wedding. Julie was one of my bridesmaids, and we still exchange Christmas cards. Ronn was George’s neighbor and one of his groomsman. Kathryn, Lawton, Suzette, Erica, Tammy, and Loretta...good peeps, each and every one.
My teachers were the best: Dr. Collins, Mr. Lentz, Mr. Lynch, Mr. Harmon, Mrs. Skidmore, Mr. Gardner, Miss Browning, and all the rest. The headmaster at the time, Dr. Fox, and the school nurse, Ms. Lindsay, also rocked. These grown-ups encouraged me and taught me. Heaven above, I still love them for it.
But let’s just say that my teen years were not the best of my life.
It’s weird being the not-rich kid at a rich kids’ school, sort of like being Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink, only without the happy ending. Socially, you can never really belong. Your house is in the wrong neighborhood; you are not a member of the “right” country club because you are not a member of “any” country club; and you don’t have vacation homes at Beech Mountain and Kiawah Island. You don’t shop at the same stores or wear the same clothes or carry the right kind of purse.
Lawton, for example, had never set foot in Kmart until senior year when Tim needed batteries for his Walkman. When I was in elementary school, my grandfather bought my shoes at Kmart. That’s not something I mentioned to Lawton or anyone else at the time.
Now, however, I can tell the world because, thank God, I am no longer an awkward teenager who desperately wants to belong. Now, I’m just really, really grateful my grandfather loved me enough to buy my shoes when I needed them. I remember how I loved those shoes and felt so pretty wearing them. I’ve learned what is important in life, and it isn’t where you buy your shoes.
Ultimately, my family's lack of dusty old Southern money did not make my Charlotte Latin experience so miserable. Depression did that. Anyone who has been severely depressed and recovered knows exactly what I mean. If you’ve never been depressed, I highly recommend you get down on your knees right now and thank whatever deity you worship for your mental health.
Depression was the smoky and wildly distorting lens through which I viewed the world and myself in it. When you’re depressed, you lose your sense of perspective, so things that are really tiny in the grand scheme of the universe seem preternaturally huge, and the huge things—those things that can save your soul and your life—seem tiny and powerless. When you’re depressed, you are tortured by the razor nicks of a million little cruelties, overwhelming loneliness, and an exaggeration of pain to the point where the universe becomes a big, dark, inescapable pit of misery.
Yeah, I want to go hang with the peeps who were a part of that time in my life.
Fortunately, my mother, my husband, and a very nice psychologist helped me out of the pit. I learned to be happy, grateful, and confident again. In college, I figured out how to find a place, make friends, and be useful and real. It took time, but it all worked out for me. Rest assured, I thank my deity for that every single day.
Recently, I found an invitation to Charlotte Latin’s fall high school reunion activities in my mailbox. It displayed a montage of color photos of smiling, happy people having a great time. Call me cynical, but I’m unconvinced by the marketing. The rosy-tinted spectacles of nostalgia clash with my gray hair anyway.
I hope the class of 1984 has a wonderful time. Really, I do. I hope no one makes snide comments about people’s weight or careers. I expect most of them have learned how to be useful and real and grown up, just like I have. And I hope they don’t comment on how pathetic I was when they page through the yearbook and see my picture. But if they do, well, that is okay. I was pathetic.
But I was also hard-working, compassionate, accepting, helpful, and kind—or at least tried to be all those good things. Now, in my forties, I no longer beat myself up for my inadequacies and imperfections, though I still have plenty of them and they make me cringe frequently. I also deeply appreciate my strengths and try not to let them go to my head.
Balance and perspective are good. I’m so happy I found them and wouldn’t turn back the clock for all the dusty old money in the world.
So, to the Charlotte Latin Class of 1984, I salute you and wish you a happy reunion without me. I hope the last 25 years have been as good to you as they were to me. May the next 25 be even better to us all.
Thursday, October 2, 2008
Thursday, September 25, 2008
Responding to Autism
Recently, I came across a discussion on an internet forum that got me thinking. Yes, yes, I know “thinking” is dangerous, but I like living on the edge. I have thrill issues.
This particular forum is for parents of children with autism, and the discussion thread that got me thinking was titled “To Tell or Not to Tell.” The person who initiated this thread was curious to know how other parents decided to tell or not tell friends, family, schools, and strangers about their children’s autism.
To tell or not to tell isn’t a choice for many families with disabled children because the disabilities are obvious even to the casual observer. Autism, however, isn’t always obvious. Metaphorically speaking, it’s a big, shadowy, amorphous blob with fuzzy margins and no clear-cut features to define it. Medically speaking, it is a neuro-developmental disorder that involves social developmental delays; a huge variety of speech and communication problems; and stereotypical behaviors that are repetitive, routine, or ritual in nature, and interfere with daily life. (Did you get all that? That’s okay. No one else does either, not even the experts.)
Developmental pediatricians and child psychologists may know immediately that something isn’t right with a particular child, but they spend years studying what to look for and order multiple evaluations by lots of different specialists before they will diagnose autism. Grandma, Aunt Marge, Neighbor Bill, and Stranger at the Grocery Store, however, may not notice anything out of the ordinary.
So…“To tell or not to tell?”
When we began the process of getting Jack diagnosed, we sent out a mass email to friends and family asking for prayers and support. From our point of view, how could we NOT include our family and friends in something so huge? George and I are WYSIWYG: what you see is what you get. To us, not dealing openly with this implies we are somehow ashamed of Jack. Nothing could be further from the truth. We love him and think he’s wonderful no matter what label is affixed to his medical or school record. If the label gets him the help he needs, it serves a fine purpose as far as we’re concerned.
But there are two sides to telling: someone does the telling, and the people who are told do the reacting. Sadly, many parents of children with autism have to deal with unpleasant reactions. They hear comments like, “There’s nothing wrong with him that a good spanking wouldn’t cure.” Or, “You’re over-reacting. He’s fine.” Or, “If you just do this, he’ll be normal.” It is sad how many parents hear these things from the very people whose support they desperately need: family and friends. These reactions make it very easy to understand why parents might decide not to tell.
Over two years ago, when we started this journey with Jack, most everyone we told trusted our judgment and offered up love, support, and prayers. But one person boldly declared to me, “There’s nothing wrong with this kid, and he certainly doesn’t have autism!”
What are you supposed to say to a comment like this?
I had no idea, so I said something vague and noncommittal. I wasn’t angry about the comment, just taken aback. I understand people honestly don’t know what to say in situations like this, and denial may seem a reasonable, compassionate response. People say unhelpful things, but rarely do they intend to be mean or rude or insulting. He certainly didn’t, and I knew that. It would have been out of character for him.
Nevertheless, many other parents are highly insulted and hurt by these sorts of comments and vent angrily on the forum. One woman’s sister, who has no children but raises dogs, told her that she just needed to discipline her autistic son more so he wouldn’t be such a disruption at family functions. The offended mother asked on the forum, “What am I supposed to do? Put a choke chain on him? Smack him on the nose?” Such an angry reaction is perfectly natural, largely because these parents are grappling with something that is huge and scary and life-altering. They do not need criticism or advice, just hugs and support.
People who have never experienced this and know little about autism (or worse, have seen the movie Rain Man and think they know everything about it) just can’t understand. When you bring a child into this world, you generally assume he or she will be “normal,” however you define that word. When you find out this isn’t the case, that your child has a brain disorder for which there is no cure…, well, let’s just say it’s a shock. In this state, parents can become emotionally fragile, even more sensitive than they might usually be. When someone questions their judgment, which is based on professional medical evaluation, they can easily get defensive and flip out.
You can’t really blame them, can you?
Jack’s official diagnosis was Pervasive Developmental Disorder—Not Otherwise Specified, mildly affected—or atypical autism. Most people who meet Jack casually don’t see any problem at all, but he has significant delays in social development and speech, along with sensory problems and delays in gross and fine motor development which sometimes accompany autism. Unlike more severely affected children, he has good expressive language, is empathetic and can read facial expressions, and is easily redirected most of the time. He made so much progress socially in the last eight months that his developmental pediatrician got choked up at his last check-up. Sadly, developmental pediatricians don't always see that kind of dramatic improvement in their autistic patients.
Jack is so blessed. His brain is working hard to rewire itself to function more normally. Not all kids with autism have brains that can do this. Jack’s progress, however, is a direct result of his own hard work as well as the dedication of half-a-dozen therapists and doctors who provide expert treatment; wonderful teachers and aides at two different schools who respect him and cheer for him and make him work; a church, family, and friends who accept and love him; and parents and a brother who pay attention to him and heap love on him daily.
Last year Jack’s teacher asked him, “What is the best thing about being Jack?”
He replied, “Love.”
Think about that for a minute. All these people pulling for Jack have surrounded him for over two years with their love and prayers, and even at the age of five, he knew it. Would our church, Jack’s typical preschool, friends, and family have done this if we didn’t tell them about his challenge in the first place? Would they just think he was a disrespectful little kid who ignored them and refused to look them in the eye? Would they get angry when he wasn’t paying attention to them or when he wandered away while they were talking to him? Would they think he was weird when he started acting out Blue’s Clues dialogue with his reflection in a glass door? Would they understand?
One day about a year after the diagnosis, Jack had a substitute gymnastics teacher, and I decided to conduct an experiment: I didn’t tell her. After class she informed me she had to hold Jack out because he wouldn’t listen. It was obvious by her tone she thought he was a brat. So I told her. She must have thought I was nuts because I smiled benignly the whole time she chewed me out. I deserved a chewing-out for setting her up like that, but I had to test my theory in a safe environment and she gave me that. Sure enough, when she taught him in later classes, she was patience personified.
I’m telling. It works for us.
How people respond, however, is up to them. It’s hard responding well to any friend or family member confronted with a huge challenge, whether that challenge is autism, cancer, divorce, job loss, or death of a loved one. Sometimes you feel like you need to make the challenge smaller for them or fix it for them because your heart is breaking, too, and you want to do something, anything, to make it better. I’ve certainly felt those things when on the responding side.
Now that I’ve been on the telling side, though, I think I’ve figured out what makes a good response. If you find yourself fishing for something to say, try something like this:
“Wow, this is huge. I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now, but I’m here for you. Feel free to talk to me, vent to me, complain to me, cry on my shoulder, punch my sofa pillows, whatever you need. Teach me what this means so I can help you carry this load.”
George and I are so blessed. We have heard variations of this response from Day One of our autism journey, and I simply can’t tell you what a difference it has made, at least not without making a blubbering fool of myself. So I’ll just paraphrase an expert:
The best thing about being the Raihala family is…love.
This particular forum is for parents of children with autism, and the discussion thread that got me thinking was titled “To Tell or Not to Tell.” The person who initiated this thread was curious to know how other parents decided to tell or not tell friends, family, schools, and strangers about their children’s autism.
To tell or not to tell isn’t a choice for many families with disabled children because the disabilities are obvious even to the casual observer. Autism, however, isn’t always obvious. Metaphorically speaking, it’s a big, shadowy, amorphous blob with fuzzy margins and no clear-cut features to define it. Medically speaking, it is a neuro-developmental disorder that involves social developmental delays; a huge variety of speech and communication problems; and stereotypical behaviors that are repetitive, routine, or ritual in nature, and interfere with daily life. (Did you get all that? That’s okay. No one else does either, not even the experts.)
Developmental pediatricians and child psychologists may know immediately that something isn’t right with a particular child, but they spend years studying what to look for and order multiple evaluations by lots of different specialists before they will diagnose autism. Grandma, Aunt Marge, Neighbor Bill, and Stranger at the Grocery Store, however, may not notice anything out of the ordinary.
So…“To tell or not to tell?”
When we began the process of getting Jack diagnosed, we sent out a mass email to friends and family asking for prayers and support. From our point of view, how could we NOT include our family and friends in something so huge? George and I are WYSIWYG: what you see is what you get. To us, not dealing openly with this implies we are somehow ashamed of Jack. Nothing could be further from the truth. We love him and think he’s wonderful no matter what label is affixed to his medical or school record. If the label gets him the help he needs, it serves a fine purpose as far as we’re concerned.
But there are two sides to telling: someone does the telling, and the people who are told do the reacting. Sadly, many parents of children with autism have to deal with unpleasant reactions. They hear comments like, “There’s nothing wrong with him that a good spanking wouldn’t cure.” Or, “You’re over-reacting. He’s fine.” Or, “If you just do this, he’ll be normal.” It is sad how many parents hear these things from the very people whose support they desperately need: family and friends. These reactions make it very easy to understand why parents might decide not to tell.
Over two years ago, when we started this journey with Jack, most everyone we told trusted our judgment and offered up love, support, and prayers. But one person boldly declared to me, “There’s nothing wrong with this kid, and he certainly doesn’t have autism!”
What are you supposed to say to a comment like this?
I had no idea, so I said something vague and noncommittal. I wasn’t angry about the comment, just taken aback. I understand people honestly don’t know what to say in situations like this, and denial may seem a reasonable, compassionate response. People say unhelpful things, but rarely do they intend to be mean or rude or insulting. He certainly didn’t, and I knew that. It would have been out of character for him.
Nevertheless, many other parents are highly insulted and hurt by these sorts of comments and vent angrily on the forum. One woman’s sister, who has no children but raises dogs, told her that she just needed to discipline her autistic son more so he wouldn’t be such a disruption at family functions. The offended mother asked on the forum, “What am I supposed to do? Put a choke chain on him? Smack him on the nose?” Such an angry reaction is perfectly natural, largely because these parents are grappling with something that is huge and scary and life-altering. They do not need criticism or advice, just hugs and support.
People who have never experienced this and know little about autism (or worse, have seen the movie Rain Man and think they know everything about it) just can’t understand. When you bring a child into this world, you generally assume he or she will be “normal,” however you define that word. When you find out this isn’t the case, that your child has a brain disorder for which there is no cure…, well, let’s just say it’s a shock. In this state, parents can become emotionally fragile, even more sensitive than they might usually be. When someone questions their judgment, which is based on professional medical evaluation, they can easily get defensive and flip out.
You can’t really blame them, can you?
Jack’s official diagnosis was Pervasive Developmental Disorder—Not Otherwise Specified, mildly affected—or atypical autism. Most people who meet Jack casually don’t see any problem at all, but he has significant delays in social development and speech, along with sensory problems and delays in gross and fine motor development which sometimes accompany autism. Unlike more severely affected children, he has good expressive language, is empathetic and can read facial expressions, and is easily redirected most of the time. He made so much progress socially in the last eight months that his developmental pediatrician got choked up at his last check-up. Sadly, developmental pediatricians don't always see that kind of dramatic improvement in their autistic patients.
Jack is so blessed. His brain is working hard to rewire itself to function more normally. Not all kids with autism have brains that can do this. Jack’s progress, however, is a direct result of his own hard work as well as the dedication of half-a-dozen therapists and doctors who provide expert treatment; wonderful teachers and aides at two different schools who respect him and cheer for him and make him work; a church, family, and friends who accept and love him; and parents and a brother who pay attention to him and heap love on him daily.
Last year Jack’s teacher asked him, “What is the best thing about being Jack?”
He replied, “Love.”
Think about that for a minute. All these people pulling for Jack have surrounded him for over two years with their love and prayers, and even at the age of five, he knew it. Would our church, Jack’s typical preschool, friends, and family have done this if we didn’t tell them about his challenge in the first place? Would they just think he was a disrespectful little kid who ignored them and refused to look them in the eye? Would they get angry when he wasn’t paying attention to them or when he wandered away while they were talking to him? Would they think he was weird when he started acting out Blue’s Clues dialogue with his reflection in a glass door? Would they understand?
One day about a year after the diagnosis, Jack had a substitute gymnastics teacher, and I decided to conduct an experiment: I didn’t tell her. After class she informed me she had to hold Jack out because he wouldn’t listen. It was obvious by her tone she thought he was a brat. So I told her. She must have thought I was nuts because I smiled benignly the whole time she chewed me out. I deserved a chewing-out for setting her up like that, but I had to test my theory in a safe environment and she gave me that. Sure enough, when she taught him in later classes, she was patience personified.
I’m telling. It works for us.
How people respond, however, is up to them. It’s hard responding well to any friend or family member confronted with a huge challenge, whether that challenge is autism, cancer, divorce, job loss, or death of a loved one. Sometimes you feel like you need to make the challenge smaller for them or fix it for them because your heart is breaking, too, and you want to do something, anything, to make it better. I’ve certainly felt those things when on the responding side.
Now that I’ve been on the telling side, though, I think I’ve figured out what makes a good response. If you find yourself fishing for something to say, try something like this:
“Wow, this is huge. I can’t imagine what you’re going through right now, but I’m here for you. Feel free to talk to me, vent to me, complain to me, cry on my shoulder, punch my sofa pillows, whatever you need. Teach me what this means so I can help you carry this load.”
George and I are so blessed. We have heard variations of this response from Day One of our autism journey, and I simply can’t tell you what a difference it has made, at least not without making a blubbering fool of myself. So I’ll just paraphrase an expert:
The best thing about being the Raihala family is…love.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Ike Strikes...Ohio?
Sunday, September 14, 2008, will go down in history as the day Ohio—a land-locked state in the flippin’ Midwest—experienced a hurricane. Okay, I exaggerate. Ohio experienced a tropical storm despite the fact that we are nowhere near the tropics. Go figure.
Of course, what the Gulf Coast experienced was far, far worse than what Ohio has endured. I’ve never experienced anything that terrifying or dangerous in my life, or anything as uncomfortable and dangerous as the aftermath, either. My prayers go out to all those affected so dramatically and so tragically by this storm.
Frankly, our experience in Ohio was enough for me. Ike blew through Ohio with 78 mph winds and knocked out power to almost 2 million people. There was some flooding, but not in our little corner of the state. We just got the wind, which was enough to kill three people and put many others in danger from the power outage and general chaos. Just think of the elderly and infirm who had oxygen tanks needing refills, the patients at home who needed electricity for the machines that help them live, diabetics and others whose medications needed refrigeration, and anyone who had the horrible bad luck to need emergency help when roads were blocked, phones didn’t work, and all emergency services were completely maxed out.
Seeing as I am not a health care professional, fire fighter, electrician, police officer, or other sort of trained and really useful person in situations like this, I did what the voices on the radio said to do: I stayed home and listened to the radio.
My weather radio was such a blessing. I bought it several years ago and thought I was paying too much at the time. Now I know how much it’s really worth, and it was a steal at $25. If you don’t have one, get one. Right now.
The radio provided information, which is quite comforting when you’re in a black-out. Even more importantly, it was very entertaining. I haven’t listened to local talk radio in, oh, forever, and found it fascinating to pass the time listening to people say, over and over again, how they’ve lived here all their lives and never seen anything like this. Well, I haven’t lived here all my life—just 4.5 of my 41 years—and I HAVE seen weather like this. It’s scary and intense and for some people very dangerous, but it could have been much worse. Basically, if you are alive, have safe shelter, are in reasonably good health, and have a box of graham crackers in your pantry, you shouldn’t be complaining. Well, maybe just a little. But really, perspective is essential at times like these. And the radio personalities I heard did a fairly good job of keeping things in perspective.
Those same radio personalities showed me how stupidity infects the masses at times like this. Traffic lights went out everywhere, trees and power lines blocked roads, and police and government officials told people to stay home unless absolutely necessary. Do the masses ever listen to police and government officials?
That was a rhetorical question.
Local radio reported children climbing damaged trees tangled in power lines and cars blasting through intersections rather than honoring the four-way-stop rule for dead traffic signals. Experts warned people “if in doubt, throw it out” with regard to food in their fridges, to be extra careful with chain saws, to beware of carbon monoxide poisoning from generators, to keep an eye on candles, and to stay away from fences if power lines were down on them. People don’t listen to experts any more than they listen to police and government officials. That’s one reason why hospitals have emergency rooms: for all the stupid people.
My own stupidity was unlikely to be lethal because I listened to the authorities and experts. I’m a good little girl who threw out all her food, who would never touch a chain saw under any circumstances, and who went nowhere for two whole days and was perfectly happy about it. But why, after more than 24 hours without power, did I walk into a room, flip on the light, and expect it to work? Honestly, there was always a split second of surprise (“Oh, why didn’t the light turn on?”), followed immediately by recognition of my own stupidity.
Because we in our little cul-de-sac had it so easy in this crisis, I can say that the saddest thing about it for me personally was my lack of connectivity. I really, really missed my computer. And my wireless network. And my cell phone, which, even after George took it to work on Monday and charged it, had no bars and was useless. Like me.
Obviously, I can live without these miracles of technology, but every time I walked past my closed laptop without its friendly green light winking at me, I felt very sad. My only comfort was the sure knowledge that it was in Duke Energy’s best interest to get me back online as quickly as possible.
Thanks to the hard work of many, many really useful people, the little green light is on again, so let me share my random advice about living powerless:
1) First and foremost, don’t be stupid. I mean it. Listen to authorities, don’t try to fix things you’re not qualified to fix, and stay out of the way unless you are a really useful person. The really useful people are busy enough without having to save your butt, too.
2) Definitely own a gas grill with a burner and a full propane tank. If you can also have a husband who is creative and clever and likes to pretend he’s a chef instead of a military consultant, you will eat very well without power. We did, and it wasn’t because of me. George is the really useful one.
3) Be powerless in mild weather. Highs in the 60s and lows in the 40s make living powerless ever so much easier.
4) Be powerless at the full moon. Night is way less scary at that time of the month, so to speak.
5) Definitely have clean, running water while powerless. We could wash, drink, and flush. I can do without other stuff if those essentials are covered. My hair was a little scary, but at least I didn’t stink. So don’t ever let the water go out on you, and you’ll be fine. If the water does go out, despite your best efforts, I can’t help you. Only the really useful people can, unless you are smarter than I am and stockpile bottled water in your basement.
6) Always make sure your underwear drawer is full. This may seem silly, but I was insanely happy when I realized my underwear drawer was full. You can never have too many pairs of fresh undies in a crisis situation.
7) This bit of advice may be shocking, but hear me out, please. Cut down all the trees around your home. We live in a newer, cookie-cutter style neighborhood, where all the look-alike houses have a single, small, mandatory tree plunked into the center of the front yard. Our mandatory tree did us the favor of dying last year. Unlike all the people who live in beautiful, woodsy neighborhoods with lots of character and charm and shade, we weren’t worried about being arboreally damaged. Being arboreally damaged is either expensive or painful or both. The trees will win. Get rid of them. Character and charm are overrated anyway.
If you just can’t bear to part with your leafy friends, at least have trained and licensed tree experts prune them annually for you. Do whatever these experts say and pay them whatever they ask. One guy called the radio station and told everyone how he paid experts to take care of his trees each year. His trees, therefore, were very healthy and didn’t lose any large branches or fall over in the storm. If you can’t be me, without any trees, then be him, without any arboreal damage.
8) Have lots of candles and matches on hand. Just recently, I’d been thinking about purging some of my candles in a futile attempt to rid my house of clutter. Boy, am I glad I did not do anything so stupid. I wrote the draft of this essay by the golden glow of candlelight at my kitchen table while listening to classical jazz on my weather radio and sipping a very nice Cline Zinfandel. Yeah, we suffered in our house.
9) If you don’t have an emergency kit, get one. I had all essentials for this particular emergency covered: batteries, candles, matches, flashlights, first aid kit, radio, a pantry of food, and five bottles of wine—especially the wine.
So there you have it: Susan’s advice for being powerless. That’s about as useful as I can be in a crisis, but I really hope you never need even that much help. Keep safe.
Postscript:
To all the idiots shooting off fireworks late at night when everyone’s windows were open and all the tired mommies were trying to enjoy a little peace and quiet after days of powerless parenting…I hate you. My golden retriever hates you, too.
Of course, what the Gulf Coast experienced was far, far worse than what Ohio has endured. I’ve never experienced anything that terrifying or dangerous in my life, or anything as uncomfortable and dangerous as the aftermath, either. My prayers go out to all those affected so dramatically and so tragically by this storm.
Frankly, our experience in Ohio was enough for me. Ike blew through Ohio with 78 mph winds and knocked out power to almost 2 million people. There was some flooding, but not in our little corner of the state. We just got the wind, which was enough to kill three people and put many others in danger from the power outage and general chaos. Just think of the elderly and infirm who had oxygen tanks needing refills, the patients at home who needed electricity for the machines that help them live, diabetics and others whose medications needed refrigeration, and anyone who had the horrible bad luck to need emergency help when roads were blocked, phones didn’t work, and all emergency services were completely maxed out.
Seeing as I am not a health care professional, fire fighter, electrician, police officer, or other sort of trained and really useful person in situations like this, I did what the voices on the radio said to do: I stayed home and listened to the radio.
My weather radio was such a blessing. I bought it several years ago and thought I was paying too much at the time. Now I know how much it’s really worth, and it was a steal at $25. If you don’t have one, get one. Right now.
The radio provided information, which is quite comforting when you’re in a black-out. Even more importantly, it was very entertaining. I haven’t listened to local talk radio in, oh, forever, and found it fascinating to pass the time listening to people say, over and over again, how they’ve lived here all their lives and never seen anything like this. Well, I haven’t lived here all my life—just 4.5 of my 41 years—and I HAVE seen weather like this. It’s scary and intense and for some people very dangerous, but it could have been much worse. Basically, if you are alive, have safe shelter, are in reasonably good health, and have a box of graham crackers in your pantry, you shouldn’t be complaining. Well, maybe just a little. But really, perspective is essential at times like these. And the radio personalities I heard did a fairly good job of keeping things in perspective.
Those same radio personalities showed me how stupidity infects the masses at times like this. Traffic lights went out everywhere, trees and power lines blocked roads, and police and government officials told people to stay home unless absolutely necessary. Do the masses ever listen to police and government officials?
That was a rhetorical question.
Local radio reported children climbing damaged trees tangled in power lines and cars blasting through intersections rather than honoring the four-way-stop rule for dead traffic signals. Experts warned people “if in doubt, throw it out” with regard to food in their fridges, to be extra careful with chain saws, to beware of carbon monoxide poisoning from generators, to keep an eye on candles, and to stay away from fences if power lines were down on them. People don’t listen to experts any more than they listen to police and government officials. That’s one reason why hospitals have emergency rooms: for all the stupid people.
My own stupidity was unlikely to be lethal because I listened to the authorities and experts. I’m a good little girl who threw out all her food, who would never touch a chain saw under any circumstances, and who went nowhere for two whole days and was perfectly happy about it. But why, after more than 24 hours without power, did I walk into a room, flip on the light, and expect it to work? Honestly, there was always a split second of surprise (“Oh, why didn’t the light turn on?”), followed immediately by recognition of my own stupidity.
Because we in our little cul-de-sac had it so easy in this crisis, I can say that the saddest thing about it for me personally was my lack of connectivity. I really, really missed my computer. And my wireless network. And my cell phone, which, even after George took it to work on Monday and charged it, had no bars and was useless. Like me.
Obviously, I can live without these miracles of technology, but every time I walked past my closed laptop without its friendly green light winking at me, I felt very sad. My only comfort was the sure knowledge that it was in Duke Energy’s best interest to get me back online as quickly as possible.
Thanks to the hard work of many, many really useful people, the little green light is on again, so let me share my random advice about living powerless:
1) First and foremost, don’t be stupid. I mean it. Listen to authorities, don’t try to fix things you’re not qualified to fix, and stay out of the way unless you are a really useful person. The really useful people are busy enough without having to save your butt, too.
2) Definitely own a gas grill with a burner and a full propane tank. If you can also have a husband who is creative and clever and likes to pretend he’s a chef instead of a military consultant, you will eat very well without power. We did, and it wasn’t because of me. George is the really useful one.
3) Be powerless in mild weather. Highs in the 60s and lows in the 40s make living powerless ever so much easier.
4) Be powerless at the full moon. Night is way less scary at that time of the month, so to speak.
5) Definitely have clean, running water while powerless. We could wash, drink, and flush. I can do without other stuff if those essentials are covered. My hair was a little scary, but at least I didn’t stink. So don’t ever let the water go out on you, and you’ll be fine. If the water does go out, despite your best efforts, I can’t help you. Only the really useful people can, unless you are smarter than I am and stockpile bottled water in your basement.
6) Always make sure your underwear drawer is full. This may seem silly, but I was insanely happy when I realized my underwear drawer was full. You can never have too many pairs of fresh undies in a crisis situation.
7) This bit of advice may be shocking, but hear me out, please. Cut down all the trees around your home. We live in a newer, cookie-cutter style neighborhood, where all the look-alike houses have a single, small, mandatory tree plunked into the center of the front yard. Our mandatory tree did us the favor of dying last year. Unlike all the people who live in beautiful, woodsy neighborhoods with lots of character and charm and shade, we weren’t worried about being arboreally damaged. Being arboreally damaged is either expensive or painful or both. The trees will win. Get rid of them. Character and charm are overrated anyway.
If you just can’t bear to part with your leafy friends, at least have trained and licensed tree experts prune them annually for you. Do whatever these experts say and pay them whatever they ask. One guy called the radio station and told everyone how he paid experts to take care of his trees each year. His trees, therefore, were very healthy and didn’t lose any large branches or fall over in the storm. If you can’t be me, without any trees, then be him, without any arboreal damage.
8) Have lots of candles and matches on hand. Just recently, I’d been thinking about purging some of my candles in a futile attempt to rid my house of clutter. Boy, am I glad I did not do anything so stupid. I wrote the draft of this essay by the golden glow of candlelight at my kitchen table while listening to classical jazz on my weather radio and sipping a very nice Cline Zinfandel. Yeah, we suffered in our house.
9) If you don’t have an emergency kit, get one. I had all essentials for this particular emergency covered: batteries, candles, matches, flashlights, first aid kit, radio, a pantry of food, and five bottles of wine—especially the wine.
So there you have it: Susan’s advice for being powerless. That’s about as useful as I can be in a crisis, but I really hope you never need even that much help. Keep safe.
Postscript:
To all the idiots shooting off fireworks late at night when everyone’s windows were open and all the tired mommies were trying to enjoy a little peace and quiet after days of powerless parenting…I hate you. My golden retriever hates you, too.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
Just Tri-ing to Understand
Last weekend, George and I left our boys at home in the loving care of my mother and went to Madison, Wisconsin, for five days so George could participate in the Ford Ironman Wisconsin Triathlon.
You see, I married a totally insane man whose idea of fun is to swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, and then run a marathon. That’s another 26.2 miles, in case you didn’t know. A total race distance of 140.6 miles. All in one day.
Did I mention he’s insane?
This was year four of George’s Ironman (IM) career. The first year, 2005, he did not finish IM Wisconsin, though he made it through the swim, bike, and half the marathon before quitting. It was hot and windy that year, and he was in good company—over a third of the participants did not finish, a record for that course. George had gone by himself, and it broke my heart thinking of him, miserable and alone, driving back to his hotel room with a DNF (Did Not Finish) by his name.
In 2006, he finished IM Wisconsin with a time of 13:25, well within the Ironman race limit of 17 hours. He did this race alone, as well, and the joy in his voice as he recounted his experience to me over the phone made me ache to think I was not there to celebrate with him.
In 2007, we took our family vacation to the Adirondacks so George could race in IM Lake Placid, but around mile 130 of the course, a nice, sensible police officer called an ambulance to take my husband to the medical tent, where he joined hundreds of other people who were hooked to IVs and wrapped in warm blankets. He was eight pounds light from dehydration, completely white with the salt he had sweated out of his abused body, shivering uncontrollably, and slightly disoriented. A few bags of IV fluid and a gallon of chicken broth later, he walked out of the tent and into my arms.
I’m not sure it helped him having us there, but at least he had a shoulder to lean on and didn’t have to drive himself back to the hotel alone. I went out to get him a Big Mac and fries at 11:00 pm. It was the least I could do. Actually, it was all I could do.
My aunt asked me last year if I understood why George felt the need to do this to himself. I answered honestly, “No, I don’t understand at all.”
So this year, we left the children with Grandma Dianne and drove to Madison together. I hoped that without the distraction of the boys, I would finally understand why an otherwise intelligent, stable, sensible, 43-year-old man would do this to himself. Again.
I paid close attention, took in everything I could from the experience, and kept detailed mental notes. I still don’t get it, but I did learn a lot this year from my careful observations.
1) It’s now patently obvious to me that I am not alone. Last year, I was too busy keeping Nick occupied and chasing after Jack, who for some reason felt the need to run in a huge circle around the finish line over and over through the crowd. You can’t do much observing under these circumstances.
This year, I noticed lots of other people—men and women, young and old—wandering around with the same bemused look on their faces that I saw on mine whenever I looked in the mirror. These bemused people are sometimes referred to as Iron Sherpas or, if we’re married to the crazy ones, Ironmates. Many of us carry bike pumps around on race day, looking like husbands stuck at the department store holding their wives’ purses, not quite sure what to do with them. Not one of us understands why the men and women we love would do this race, but we love them enough to carry their bike pumps anyway.
I saw a woman about my age hanging out at the finish line on race day wearing an Ironmate shirt that said “Just tri-ing to understand.”
I wanted to hug this woman as a long-lost sister.
2) It’s also obvious that George is not alone. This year’s race started with 2,207 athletes. Many of these people, including George, had already pre-registered to participate in next year’s race. As I waited to cheer George on at the transition from swim to bike, the man next to me admitted that he was checking out the race in hopes of doing it next year. I hope he got in because the morning after the race, general registration opened for just a few hours. The line of hopefuls wrapped around the Convention Center, and the race filled quickly. There are just too many people who, for some unknown reason, want to do this race.
3) It takes thousands of dedicated volunteers to make this sort of race happen. Imagine the number of people it takes to activate race chips, repair bikes, register racers, set up and tear down the finish line, mark the course, patrol the course, keep non-participants off the course, keep participants on the course, ride in kayaks to make sure no one drowns on the swim, staff and supply aide stations, smear Vaseline on chaffing spots during the marathon, provide medical care for a bunch of crazy people…. The list goes on and on.
At the finish line, the video and race photos only show the victory of crossing. But I watched what happened after participants crossed the line into the chute of rubber-gloved volunteers ready to “catch” them. One volunteer’s only job, as far as I could see, was tearing off reflective silver blankets from huge rolls and piling them onto tables for the volunteer “catchers” to grab and wrap around the race finishers. Other volunteers handed the finishers medals, t-shirts, and hats as the catchers continued to hold onto them so they would not fall down. Many volunteers escorted a number of finishers straight to the medical tent where even more volunteers put IV fluids into them.
I wanted to hug each and every one of the volunteers, too.
4) The finish line is incredible. I can’t express the thrill of watching crazy person after crazy person finish this crazy race. As each racer crosses the line, the announcer calls out his or her name, and yells, “You are an Ironman!”
I knew no one else participating in this race, but I tell you, I loved them all, cheered them on until I was hoarse and my hands hurt from clapping. I desperately wanted to know the story of each and every one of them. Was this their first IM race? How old were they? What made them do it? How long had they trained? What did it mean for them to finish this race? Why were they here? I would put up with Bob Costas’ penchant for melodrama if only he would tell me these stories, but I think he just shows up for Ironman Hawaii.
Why do these triathletes push their bodies so hard in three sports? I don’t know. Why do they spend hours, weeks, months, years training to do a race that they may not even finish? I don’t know. Having been there, paying attention, I think it may have something to do with that finish line and the announcer saying, “You are an Ironman!” There must be something about that experience to make all the pain worth it.
As George tells the story of his race this year, he lost the will to live around mile 16 of the marathon, but after some salt pills and Gatorade and a few miles of walking, the leg cramps stopped, and he thought he could finish it. He did, with a personal record of 12:41. I ran to the end of the finisher chute and caught him as he stumbled toward me, wrapped in a silver blanket and wearing his finisher medal and cap, holding his t-shirt.
I am still trying to understand why he does this to himself, but this much is now very clear: I’ll be proud to carry his bike pump next year, and the year after, and the year after, because…
George Raihala, you are an Ironman! Again!
You see, I married a totally insane man whose idea of fun is to swim 2.4 miles, bike 112 miles, and then run a marathon. That’s another 26.2 miles, in case you didn’t know. A total race distance of 140.6 miles. All in one day.
Did I mention he’s insane?
This was year four of George’s Ironman (IM) career. The first year, 2005, he did not finish IM Wisconsin, though he made it through the swim, bike, and half the marathon before quitting. It was hot and windy that year, and he was in good company—over a third of the participants did not finish, a record for that course. George had gone by himself, and it broke my heart thinking of him, miserable and alone, driving back to his hotel room with a DNF (Did Not Finish) by his name.
In 2006, he finished IM Wisconsin with a time of 13:25, well within the Ironman race limit of 17 hours. He did this race alone, as well, and the joy in his voice as he recounted his experience to me over the phone made me ache to think I was not there to celebrate with him.
In 2007, we took our family vacation to the Adirondacks so George could race in IM Lake Placid, but around mile 130 of the course, a nice, sensible police officer called an ambulance to take my husband to the medical tent, where he joined hundreds of other people who were hooked to IVs and wrapped in warm blankets. He was eight pounds light from dehydration, completely white with the salt he had sweated out of his abused body, shivering uncontrollably, and slightly disoriented. A few bags of IV fluid and a gallon of chicken broth later, he walked out of the tent and into my arms.
I’m not sure it helped him having us there, but at least he had a shoulder to lean on and didn’t have to drive himself back to the hotel alone. I went out to get him a Big Mac and fries at 11:00 pm. It was the least I could do. Actually, it was all I could do.
My aunt asked me last year if I understood why George felt the need to do this to himself. I answered honestly, “No, I don’t understand at all.”
So this year, we left the children with Grandma Dianne and drove to Madison together. I hoped that without the distraction of the boys, I would finally understand why an otherwise intelligent, stable, sensible, 43-year-old man would do this to himself. Again.
I paid close attention, took in everything I could from the experience, and kept detailed mental notes. I still don’t get it, but I did learn a lot this year from my careful observations.
1) It’s now patently obvious to me that I am not alone. Last year, I was too busy keeping Nick occupied and chasing after Jack, who for some reason felt the need to run in a huge circle around the finish line over and over through the crowd. You can’t do much observing under these circumstances.
This year, I noticed lots of other people—men and women, young and old—wandering around with the same bemused look on their faces that I saw on mine whenever I looked in the mirror. These bemused people are sometimes referred to as Iron Sherpas or, if we’re married to the crazy ones, Ironmates. Many of us carry bike pumps around on race day, looking like husbands stuck at the department store holding their wives’ purses, not quite sure what to do with them. Not one of us understands why the men and women we love would do this race, but we love them enough to carry their bike pumps anyway.
I saw a woman about my age hanging out at the finish line on race day wearing an Ironmate shirt that said “Just tri-ing to understand.”
I wanted to hug this woman as a long-lost sister.
2) It’s also obvious that George is not alone. This year’s race started with 2,207 athletes. Many of these people, including George, had already pre-registered to participate in next year’s race. As I waited to cheer George on at the transition from swim to bike, the man next to me admitted that he was checking out the race in hopes of doing it next year. I hope he got in because the morning after the race, general registration opened for just a few hours. The line of hopefuls wrapped around the Convention Center, and the race filled quickly. There are just too many people who, for some unknown reason, want to do this race.
3) It takes thousands of dedicated volunteers to make this sort of race happen. Imagine the number of people it takes to activate race chips, repair bikes, register racers, set up and tear down the finish line, mark the course, patrol the course, keep non-participants off the course, keep participants on the course, ride in kayaks to make sure no one drowns on the swim, staff and supply aide stations, smear Vaseline on chaffing spots during the marathon, provide medical care for a bunch of crazy people…. The list goes on and on.
At the finish line, the video and race photos only show the victory of crossing. But I watched what happened after participants crossed the line into the chute of rubber-gloved volunteers ready to “catch” them. One volunteer’s only job, as far as I could see, was tearing off reflective silver blankets from huge rolls and piling them onto tables for the volunteer “catchers” to grab and wrap around the race finishers. Other volunteers handed the finishers medals, t-shirts, and hats as the catchers continued to hold onto them so they would not fall down. Many volunteers escorted a number of finishers straight to the medical tent where even more volunteers put IV fluids into them.
I wanted to hug each and every one of the volunteers, too.
4) The finish line is incredible. I can’t express the thrill of watching crazy person after crazy person finish this crazy race. As each racer crosses the line, the announcer calls out his or her name, and yells, “You are an Ironman!”
I knew no one else participating in this race, but I tell you, I loved them all, cheered them on until I was hoarse and my hands hurt from clapping. I desperately wanted to know the story of each and every one of them. Was this their first IM race? How old were they? What made them do it? How long had they trained? What did it mean for them to finish this race? Why were they here? I would put up with Bob Costas’ penchant for melodrama if only he would tell me these stories, but I think he just shows up for Ironman Hawaii.
Why do these triathletes push their bodies so hard in three sports? I don’t know. Why do they spend hours, weeks, months, years training to do a race that they may not even finish? I don’t know. Having been there, paying attention, I think it may have something to do with that finish line and the announcer saying, “You are an Ironman!” There must be something about that experience to make all the pain worth it.
As George tells the story of his race this year, he lost the will to live around mile 16 of the marathon, but after some salt pills and Gatorade and a few miles of walking, the leg cramps stopped, and he thought he could finish it. He did, with a personal record of 12:41. I ran to the end of the finisher chute and caught him as he stumbled toward me, wrapped in a silver blanket and wearing his finisher medal and cap, holding his t-shirt.
I am still trying to understand why he does this to himself, but this much is now very clear: I’ll be proud to carry his bike pump next year, and the year after, and the year after, because…
George Raihala, you are an Ironman! Again!
Thursday, September 4, 2008
Forgive Me, Father, for I Have Sinned
Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. It’s been, well, forever since I last came to the confessional, seeing as I’m not Catholic and all. But I really feel the need to get this off my chest. The guilt of it is weighing me down, Father, and I need to move on with my life. Will you help?
Oh, thank you!
My list of literary sins is long. If you need a potty break, Father, I’ll understand.
I confess that I have hated some of the Great Books of Western Civilization.
I know. It’s shocking, isn’t it? I do have a master’s degree in literature, after all. I ought to love these Great Books, ought to talk about them with reverence, and ought to honor them for their brilliance. But my heart just isn’t in these:
--The Aeneid, by Virgil (Homer, even if he never really lived, was a much better storyteller. Those Romans just couldn’t do Greek as well as the Greeks did. I loved Virgil in Dante’s Inferno, though.)
--The Song of Roland (Honestly, Father, it’s the only work of literature from the Middle Ages that I just can’t make myself like. Maybe I need to read it again. That worked with Beowulf….)
--Don Juan, by George Gordon, Lord Byron (He single-handedly killed Romanticism. Okay, not really, but oh, my poor brain.)
--In Memoriam, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (Um, maybe Alfred killed Romanticism. I’m sorry for his loss, but any “Book” that makes me pinch my cheeks to stay awake is evil, no matter how “Great” it is.)
--David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens (Yes, yes, I loved Bleak House, Hard Times, A Christmas Carol, and Great Expectations, but why is DC so very, very long?)
--The Story of an African Farm, by Olive Schreiner (Olive was a woman writer, and I am a woman—sort of a feminist, even—and should honor her for publishing a serious book in a man’s world, but I just can’t. I can’t!)
--A Doll’s House, by Henrik Ibsen (I read it, honestly, but don’t even remember enough to make a pithy comment. Is that bad?)
--Anything and everything written by Thomas Hardy: prose, poetry, all of it … even the few pieces he wrote that I haven’t been forced to read. I really tried with Tess but just couldn’t bring myself to care anything about her. What is wrong with me, Father?
--The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane (This is a ninth-grade torture device, right?)
--A Passage to India, by E.M. Forster (Teachers must use this as punishment for all the naughty thoughts eleventh graders have. It doesn’t help.)
--The Old Man and the Sea, by Ernest Hemingway (Yeah, yeah, I get that Papa was a great writer and his style was revolutionary, but I just can’t care because his “revolutionary” style is so freaking depressing. And truly, the fish gets eaten by sharks. Shouldn’t the old man be grateful HE wasn’t eaten? Let’s get our priorities straight, shall we?)
--The Pearl, by John Steinbeck (At least it’s short.)
Then there are the Great Books I tried to read but just couldn’t slog through no matter how hard I worked at it. They weren’t even assigned, but I felt like I “should” read them. Oh, how very silly of me:
--William Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom (I love long sentences. Usually.)
--Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita (I almost finished. Does that count?)
--John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath (Does the turtle ever get across the road? Never mind. I just don’t care.)
--Albert Camus’ The Plague (I only read two paragraphs, but it sat on my bookshelf for several years before going to the used book store. What’s that you say, Father? The road to hell is paved with good intentions?)
--Jack Kerouac’s On the Road (Excuse me, Father, but do you have to be on drugs to get Jack’s point with this one?)
There’s also the one assigned book that I didn’t read at all, though I wrote a reasonably competent paper on it with the help of the venerable Professor Cliff Notes in tenth grade:
Babbitt, by Sinclair Lewis
Finally, Father, there are many classics I never read, yet I call myself well-read. Does this make me a poser? This list could go on forever, especially where American novels and poetry are concerned. Do you think I’ve made up for those Great Books that I haven’t read by reading a lot of really obscure—but definitely Great—medieval literature? After all, the medieval period was the Age of Faith. That should count for something.
I’m certain that there are other literary sins I am neglecting to confess, but frankly, I’ve blocked them from my memory.
No, Father, I don’t sound very contrite, do I? Must I be contrite for forgiveness? Can’t I just pay a pardoner and be absolved? Oh, pardoners don’t exist anymore? What a shame. Perhaps I can take H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine back to the Middle Ages and pay a visit to Chaucer’s Pardoner. Does the machine make a stop in the Middle Ages? I can’t remember.
What did you say? You mean there’s no such thing as a literary sin? It’s not a sin to dislike Great Books? I won’t burn in Hell? I don’t have to turn in my library card? I’m not a cultural infidel?
Oh, what a relief!
Oh, thank you!
My list of literary sins is long. If you need a potty break, Father, I’ll understand.
I confess that I have hated some of the Great Books of Western Civilization.
I know. It’s shocking, isn’t it? I do have a master’s degree in literature, after all. I ought to love these Great Books, ought to talk about them with reverence, and ought to honor them for their brilliance. But my heart just isn’t in these:
--The Aeneid, by Virgil (Homer, even if he never really lived, was a much better storyteller. Those Romans just couldn’t do Greek as well as the Greeks did. I loved Virgil in Dante’s Inferno, though.)
--The Song of Roland (Honestly, Father, it’s the only work of literature from the Middle Ages that I just can’t make myself like. Maybe I need to read it again. That worked with Beowulf….)
--Don Juan, by George Gordon, Lord Byron (He single-handedly killed Romanticism. Okay, not really, but oh, my poor brain.)
--In Memoriam, by Alfred, Lord Tennyson (Um, maybe Alfred killed Romanticism. I’m sorry for his loss, but any “Book” that makes me pinch my cheeks to stay awake is evil, no matter how “Great” it is.)
--David Copperfield, by Charles Dickens (Yes, yes, I loved Bleak House, Hard Times, A Christmas Carol, and Great Expectations, but why is DC so very, very long?)
--The Story of an African Farm, by Olive Schreiner (Olive was a woman writer, and I am a woman—sort of a feminist, even—and should honor her for publishing a serious book in a man’s world, but I just can’t. I can’t!)
--A Doll’s House, by Henrik Ibsen (I read it, honestly, but don’t even remember enough to make a pithy comment. Is that bad?)
--Anything and everything written by Thomas Hardy: prose, poetry, all of it … even the few pieces he wrote that I haven’t been forced to read. I really tried with Tess but just couldn’t bring myself to care anything about her. What is wrong with me, Father?
--The Red Badge of Courage, by Stephen Crane (This is a ninth-grade torture device, right?)
--A Passage to India, by E.M. Forster (Teachers must use this as punishment for all the naughty thoughts eleventh graders have. It doesn’t help.)
--The Old Man and the Sea, by Ernest Hemingway (Yeah, yeah, I get that Papa was a great writer and his style was revolutionary, but I just can’t care because his “revolutionary” style is so freaking depressing. And truly, the fish gets eaten by sharks. Shouldn’t the old man be grateful HE wasn’t eaten? Let’s get our priorities straight, shall we?)
--The Pearl, by John Steinbeck (At least it’s short.)
Then there are the Great Books I tried to read but just couldn’t slog through no matter how hard I worked at it. They weren’t even assigned, but I felt like I “should” read them. Oh, how very silly of me:
--William Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom (I love long sentences. Usually.)
--Vladimir Nabokov’s Lolita (I almost finished. Does that count?)
--John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath (Does the turtle ever get across the road? Never mind. I just don’t care.)
--Albert Camus’ The Plague (I only read two paragraphs, but it sat on my bookshelf for several years before going to the used book store. What’s that you say, Father? The road to hell is paved with good intentions?)
--Jack Kerouac’s On the Road (Excuse me, Father, but do you have to be on drugs to get Jack’s point with this one?)
There’s also the one assigned book that I didn’t read at all, though I wrote a reasonably competent paper on it with the help of the venerable Professor Cliff Notes in tenth grade:
Babbitt, by Sinclair Lewis
Finally, Father, there are many classics I never read, yet I call myself well-read. Does this make me a poser? This list could go on forever, especially where American novels and poetry are concerned. Do you think I’ve made up for those Great Books that I haven’t read by reading a lot of really obscure—but definitely Great—medieval literature? After all, the medieval period was the Age of Faith. That should count for something.
I’m certain that there are other literary sins I am neglecting to confess, but frankly, I’ve blocked them from my memory.
No, Father, I don’t sound very contrite, do I? Must I be contrite for forgiveness? Can’t I just pay a pardoner and be absolved? Oh, pardoners don’t exist anymore? What a shame. Perhaps I can take H.G. Wells’ The Time Machine back to the Middle Ages and pay a visit to Chaucer’s Pardoner. Does the machine make a stop in the Middle Ages? I can’t remember.
What did you say? You mean there’s no such thing as a literary sin? It’s not a sin to dislike Great Books? I won’t burn in Hell? I don’t have to turn in my library card? I’m not a cultural infidel?
Oh, what a relief!
Friday, August 29, 2008
The Upside of Addiction
Back in our child-free days in Boise, Idaho, George and I invited a couple of friends—let’s call them J and B—for dinner. Before she entered our lovely home which I had spent hours cleaning, B pointed to the weeds growing in the front mulch-beds and said, “You need to pull weeds.” Later, during dinner, she stared at the chandelier for a minute and said, “You need to clear out those spider webs.” J shushed her and seemed embarrassed by her honesty, but it was a revelation to me. This was the moment I realized that no one notices what you DO clean, only what you DON’T clean. You simply cannot win. Ever.
When I took the plunge into stay-at-homeness, I learned that there are lots of chores to do, and they are never done. That toilet will get dirty again—and faster than it did back in the old days when you used the facilities at work 40+ hours a week, and an unseen janitor got paid a pittance to clean up your mess and the messes of all the other, higher-paid employees who sat in cubicles all day when they weren’t in the restroom taking care of business.
As a stay-at-home parent, the janitor looks back at you in the mirror every day, and you don’t get paid even a pittance for all the toilet-scrubbing you do.
All chores grow in size and time required to do them when you stay at home: dishes (you no longer eat breakfast out of vending machines or “do lunch” at Schlotsky’s), laundry (oh, Lord above, the laundry), vacuuming (crawling babies actually eat stuff you never even noticed off your floor), taking out the trash. There’s just MORE of every chore, and no one notices unless you don’t do them.
I quickly found that if I wanted a truly clean house, I had to spend all my time cleaning. Cleaning all the time, however, turned me into a grumpy nag whom my husband, baby son, two dogs, and I despised. I concluded that to be happy with my new life, I needed to reconcile myself to dust bunnies and clutter.
This was difficult because I’m an anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive, goal-oriented intellectual who feels that all problems have a solution if only you think about them enough, and messes are a problem to me. Short of hiring a maid, however, this problem wouldn’t yield to any amount of intellectualizing or goal setting. I distracted myself from the dust bunnies and clutter by starting a hobby.
It began innocently enough. I wanted to learn how to do calligraphy and illumination…medieval book arts. Ostensibly, this was research for a novel I’ve been “not writing” for twenty years now. (By the way, stay-at-home mothers never get to use words like “ostensibly” in real life. Aren’t blogs wonderful?) After a few months of so-called research, I had a dozen or so little illuminations and no way to display them. So I taught myself another hobby, bookbinding, to have a place to put these little works of very amateurish art.
That was when I got a tiny bit addicted. In a matter of months, I bought enough paper and supplies to make illuminated books until I die of old age. When I came across a book on making greeting cards, I thought, “Oooh, another use for all these supplies!” I started making my own cards simply to use all the pretty paper lying around my house. It seemed practical at the time.
It’s Amy’s fault that I got hooked on the serious stuff. She asked if I had tried rubber stamping and introduced me to Stampin’Up!, a diabolically clever rubber cartel that sells a coordinated product line of stamps, ink, paper, ribbon, and accessories. I was already so deeply deluded that the typographical cuteness and egregious exclamation point in the company name didn’t even bother me.
I now own an undisclosed (because it’s simply too embarrassing) number of rubber stamps, most of them very well used.
Don’t judge me. Please. It really is an illness, and I can’t help myself.
Once I realized how addictive stamping is, I vowed to ignore completely the siren’s call of my paper-pushing friend Claire, a Creative Memories consultant, to start scrapbooking. There wasn’t enough time in my life for calligraphy, illumination, bookbinding, and cardmaking as it was. I had a baby to raise, a house to keep up, a long-established reading habit, and a husband.
Then the Twin Towers fell, and I had another baby, and my husband went off to war, and preserving memories seemed like a really good idea all of a sudden, and I’m now the proud creator of hundreds of scrapbook pages.
While I haven’t turned my husband into a paper addict (he has his own, even more expensive addictions, I mean, hobbies), he has become an enabler for me. He looks at my scrapbooks and says things like “I had forgotten all about this! I’m glad you scrapped it.” This warms my heart because initially George opposed my “cutting up pictures.” When we’re old and in the nursing home, my scrapbooks will give us great comfort. More importantly, our boys appreciate looking at the scrapbooks and seeing their own lives unfold in lovingly documented detail. Nothing says “I love you” like a scrapbook.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Compared to nasty and illegal addictions that result in midnight raids on your house by uniformed law enforcement in riot gear, paper crafting is really pretty benign. In fact, it has done so many wonderful things for me personally that I hardly know where to start. Consider these benefits:
1) I get feedback, and it’s not about weeds and cobwebs. People tell me what they think of my creations, and mostly it is good. One nice lady wants to sell my cards in her boutique in Cincinnati. I find this very satisfying. Maybe my need for praise is a bit pathetic, but everyone deserves to have a pat on the back every now and then, don’t you think? You get it at work, in the form of evaluations or pay raises or stock options, and you get it at school, in the form of grades. You don’t get it staying at home scrubbing toilets.
2) I don’t have to do the same thing twice. My cards are all different. Ditto for the scrapbook pages. The variety spices up my life and balances out the drudgery and monotony of chores nicely.
3) Once a project is done, it does me the courtesy of staying done. I don’t ever have to do it again. I can come back to look at it, months later, and it still doesn’t need to be redone. Not like toilets or weeds at all. As former jailbird Martha says, that’s a good thing.
4) I found a medium for creative self-expression that adds color, texture, and joy to my life. The value of this is inestimable. Not to mention the absolute coolness of so many gadgets and doodads involved. I mean, have you ever SEEN a Bind-It-All? Click the link, and tell me if it isn’t the coolest gadget ever engineered.
My house now contains a whole room dedicated to my hobby, and I spend time in that room almost every day. Yes, there are giant, golden-retriever colored dust bunnies in the corners of my wood floors, dirty dishes in my sink, and toys scattered all over my house, but I’m happy, giddily happy. Isn’t that worth something?
When I took the plunge into stay-at-homeness, I learned that there are lots of chores to do, and they are never done. That toilet will get dirty again—and faster than it did back in the old days when you used the facilities at work 40+ hours a week, and an unseen janitor got paid a pittance to clean up your mess and the messes of all the other, higher-paid employees who sat in cubicles all day when they weren’t in the restroom taking care of business.
As a stay-at-home parent, the janitor looks back at you in the mirror every day, and you don’t get paid even a pittance for all the toilet-scrubbing you do.
All chores grow in size and time required to do them when you stay at home: dishes (you no longer eat breakfast out of vending machines or “do lunch” at Schlotsky’s), laundry (oh, Lord above, the laundry), vacuuming (crawling babies actually eat stuff you never even noticed off your floor), taking out the trash. There’s just MORE of every chore, and no one notices unless you don’t do them.
I quickly found that if I wanted a truly clean house, I had to spend all my time cleaning. Cleaning all the time, however, turned me into a grumpy nag whom my husband, baby son, two dogs, and I despised. I concluded that to be happy with my new life, I needed to reconcile myself to dust bunnies and clutter.
This was difficult because I’m an anal-retentive, obsessive-compulsive, goal-oriented intellectual who feels that all problems have a solution if only you think about them enough, and messes are a problem to me. Short of hiring a maid, however, this problem wouldn’t yield to any amount of intellectualizing or goal setting. I distracted myself from the dust bunnies and clutter by starting a hobby.
It began innocently enough. I wanted to learn how to do calligraphy and illumination…medieval book arts. Ostensibly, this was research for a novel I’ve been “not writing” for twenty years now. (By the way, stay-at-home mothers never get to use words like “ostensibly” in real life. Aren’t blogs wonderful?) After a few months of so-called research, I had a dozen or so little illuminations and no way to display them. So I taught myself another hobby, bookbinding, to have a place to put these little works of very amateurish art.
That was when I got a tiny bit addicted. In a matter of months, I bought enough paper and supplies to make illuminated books until I die of old age. When I came across a book on making greeting cards, I thought, “Oooh, another use for all these supplies!” I started making my own cards simply to use all the pretty paper lying around my house. It seemed practical at the time.
It’s Amy’s fault that I got hooked on the serious stuff. She asked if I had tried rubber stamping and introduced me to Stampin’Up!, a diabolically clever rubber cartel that sells a coordinated product line of stamps, ink, paper, ribbon, and accessories. I was already so deeply deluded that the typographical cuteness and egregious exclamation point in the company name didn’t even bother me.
I now own an undisclosed (because it’s simply too embarrassing) number of rubber stamps, most of them very well used.
Don’t judge me. Please. It really is an illness, and I can’t help myself.
Once I realized how addictive stamping is, I vowed to ignore completely the siren’s call of my paper-pushing friend Claire, a Creative Memories consultant, to start scrapbooking. There wasn’t enough time in my life for calligraphy, illumination, bookbinding, and cardmaking as it was. I had a baby to raise, a house to keep up, a long-established reading habit, and a husband.
Then the Twin Towers fell, and I had another baby, and my husband went off to war, and preserving memories seemed like a really good idea all of a sudden, and I’m now the proud creator of hundreds of scrapbook pages.
While I haven’t turned my husband into a paper addict (he has his own, even more expensive addictions, I mean, hobbies), he has become an enabler for me. He looks at my scrapbooks and says things like “I had forgotten all about this! I’m glad you scrapped it.” This warms my heart because initially George opposed my “cutting up pictures.” When we’re old and in the nursing home, my scrapbooks will give us great comfort. More importantly, our boys appreciate looking at the scrapbooks and seeing their own lives unfold in lovingly documented detail. Nothing says “I love you” like a scrapbook.
At least, that’s what I tell myself.
Compared to nasty and illegal addictions that result in midnight raids on your house by uniformed law enforcement in riot gear, paper crafting is really pretty benign. In fact, it has done so many wonderful things for me personally that I hardly know where to start. Consider these benefits:
1) I get feedback, and it’s not about weeds and cobwebs. People tell me what they think of my creations, and mostly it is good. One nice lady wants to sell my cards in her boutique in Cincinnati. I find this very satisfying. Maybe my need for praise is a bit pathetic, but everyone deserves to have a pat on the back every now and then, don’t you think? You get it at work, in the form of evaluations or pay raises or stock options, and you get it at school, in the form of grades. You don’t get it staying at home scrubbing toilets.
2) I don’t have to do the same thing twice. My cards are all different. Ditto for the scrapbook pages. The variety spices up my life and balances out the drudgery and monotony of chores nicely.
3) Once a project is done, it does me the courtesy of staying done. I don’t ever have to do it again. I can come back to look at it, months later, and it still doesn’t need to be redone. Not like toilets or weeds at all. As former jailbird Martha says, that’s a good thing.
4) I found a medium for creative self-expression that adds color, texture, and joy to my life. The value of this is inestimable. Not to mention the absolute coolness of so many gadgets and doodads involved. I mean, have you ever SEEN a Bind-It-All? Click the link, and tell me if it isn’t the coolest gadget ever engineered.
My house now contains a whole room dedicated to my hobby, and I spend time in that room almost every day. Yes, there are giant, golden-retriever colored dust bunnies in the corners of my wood floors, dirty dishes in my sink, and toys scattered all over my house, but I’m happy, giddily happy. Isn’t that worth something?
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Classical Rhetoric for the Modern Mommy
Part 1
Introduction
I know what you’re thinking: what can classical rhetoric have to do with me, a modern mommy? Do I, as a mommy, need to know what topoi, ethos, dispositio, litotes, and sentence euphony mean? Isn’t it all Greek? Or is it Latin?
My friends, you may not know all the Greek and Latin terms used in classical rhetoric, but you encounter classical rhetoric every single day in what you say and what is said to you. Bear with me for a moment while I explain.
Generally speaking, classical rhetoric is poorly understood these days because it is no longer taught as a separate subject but integrated invisibly (and watered down) in standard English courses. This is one of the great tragedies of modern education. Most people define rhetoric, when they think of it at all, as language that is empty, misleading, overly embellished, or false. It is equated with doublespeak, jargon, political lies, and advertising.
In reality, rhetoric is all this and much, much more.
Consider the following useful definition:
Rhetoric is the deliberate manipulation of language to bring about a desired effect, action, or emotion in an audience.
Pretty neutral, isn’t it? Rhetoric can be used for good or evil, but it is neither. A person can manipulate language to persuade someone to get a colonoscopy (for good) or to choose an adjustable-rate mortgage they can’t afford (for evil). Rhetoric can be used to rivet your attention or bore you to death; to make you laugh so hard you pee your pants or cry like a little boy who just dropped his ice cream cone; to make you mindlessly spend gobs of money on useless crap or give gobs of money to find a cure for cancer.
Classical rhetoric, or the rhetoric taught in ancient Greece and Rome, is the systematic study of how language can do all this. There are lots of terms which have come to us in a mix of Latin or Greek that may seem complicated at first, but really, it all makes perfect sense.
Let’s consider the following statement: “My son is not the quiet type.” This is an example of litotes, or understatement, which often uses a negative to state a positive, as in “Beowulf did not lack courage when he ripped Grendel’s arms off.” He did, however, tick off Grendel’s mother with his “no lack of courage,” but that has nothing to do with rhetoric and I digress.
My point is, “my son is not the quiet type” sounds nicer than “my son can’t keep his mouth shut,” which is an example of hyperbole, or exaggeration. You might use litotes with your child’s teacher—you don’t want to prejudice him/her against your child but can’t lie, either, because he/she will figure out the truth eventually. Hyperbole, on the other hand, works well as a statement of complaint to your best friend, who does not hold your child’s future college prospects in her hands and will no doubt lend a sympathetic ear to your suffering.
See what I mean? You’re already using classical rhetoric without knowing it, but just imagine the power you could have if you knew enough to manipulate language deliberately to bring about a desired effect. And if you can consciously manipulate language, you will readily spot its use by others who wish to manipulate you.
Our little darlings can be amazingly skillful rhetoricians at a very young age. My own 8-year-old Odysseus* is a lovely example of a child who, left to his own devices, would have become master of the universe long ago if not for my ability to counter his devious rhetorical skills with very non-rhetorical discipline. Now that he is too big for me to pick up and carry to his room, however, my rhetorical skills are more important than ever.
Consider this real-life example of heuresis, or the discovery of multiple arguments, also referred to by the Latin term inventio. My little ones are not allowed to drink soda except under very special circumstances that involve unpleasant bodily fluids. Even then, they are limited to non-caffeinated options. One day recently, my son saw me drinking a can of coke that was labeled “decaffeinated.”
He can read now, which really complicates life, doesn’t it?
I saw his brain process this snippet of information and knew what was coming. In the chirpy tone of a physicist who just solved a sticky problem with string theory, he delivered the opening salvo of this rhetorical skirmish:
“Mom, that coke is decaffeinated. That means I can drink it!”
In this statement, we see logos at work. Logos, or an appeal to logic, is one of three types of appeals used in argument. In this particular case, however, my darling son’s logos fell to pieces in the face of my syllogism:
“Soda is bad for you. Decaffeinated coke is a soda. Therefore, decaffeinated coke is bad for you.”
Honestly, this syllogism is seriously flawed. “Bad” is a weak word, too vague to stand in court. What does it mean that soda is bad? Who determines soda is bad for you? But as sophisticated as he is, little Odysseus did not yet recognize this vulnerability in my argument, so he displayed his talent for heuresis and simply flexed to a different appeal. He came up with this beauty:
“Mommy, every time I see you drinking a coke, I feel really left out, and it hurts my feelings.”
Ahhh. Pathos. The appeal to emotion. Let’s hear it again because it really shows a genius at work. Savor each word out loud in as pitiful a voice as you can muster:
“Mommy, every time I see you drinking a coke, I feel really left out, and it hurts my feelings.”
Note the shift from “mom” to the more child-like “mommy.” Nice touch.
Some of you may have fallen for this verbal knife to the heart, but not me. The armor of rhetoric shields me from such attacks. I deflected his thrust with a hard-hitting combination of the “deliberative topic of the disadvantageous” (“soda rots your teeth and makes you fat”) and a somewhat unconventional reverse-psychology ethical appeal (“I hope you are smarter than your mother when you grow up and don’t drink soda”).
This rendered little Odysseus speechless. After all, mommy just implied that she isn’t smart, didn’t she? Hmm. He was stumped. For now. Eventually, these “shock and awe” tactics will no longer work, and he will find a way to use them against me, especially when he is a teenager and fully prepared to believe that mommy is more than just “not smart;” she is a complete and utter idiot.
Until then, I’ll brush up on my classical rhetoric in hopes of staying a step ahead of my little Odysseus. And since the benefits of classical rhetoric are not limited to parenting, I’ll also strengthen myself against the marketing folks trying to convince me I need an iPhone, the politicians vying for my vote, and my darling husband who, for some reason, doesn’t understand why I need to spend more money on rubber stamps.
As you can see, classical rhetoric is enormously useful for the modern mommy, and I hope you’ll stick around for periodic essays that explore the devious strategies our children use to manipulate us and even more devious strategies we can use to manipulate them.**
*Classical character of Greek epic poetry made famous to modern high school students by Homer, the blind—and completely fictitious—poet. Odysseus cunningly talks his way out of many a nasty scrape.
**If you have any examples of your children’s rhetorical skill, please email them to me for possible analysis on this blog. We can have A LOT of fun with this.
Introduction
I know what you’re thinking: what can classical rhetoric have to do with me, a modern mommy? Do I, as a mommy, need to know what topoi, ethos, dispositio, litotes, and sentence euphony mean? Isn’t it all Greek? Or is it Latin?
My friends, you may not know all the Greek and Latin terms used in classical rhetoric, but you encounter classical rhetoric every single day in what you say and what is said to you. Bear with me for a moment while I explain.
Generally speaking, classical rhetoric is poorly understood these days because it is no longer taught as a separate subject but integrated invisibly (and watered down) in standard English courses. This is one of the great tragedies of modern education. Most people define rhetoric, when they think of it at all, as language that is empty, misleading, overly embellished, or false. It is equated with doublespeak, jargon, political lies, and advertising.
In reality, rhetoric is all this and much, much more.
Consider the following useful definition:
Rhetoric is the deliberate manipulation of language to bring about a desired effect, action, or emotion in an audience.
Pretty neutral, isn’t it? Rhetoric can be used for good or evil, but it is neither. A person can manipulate language to persuade someone to get a colonoscopy (for good) or to choose an adjustable-rate mortgage they can’t afford (for evil). Rhetoric can be used to rivet your attention or bore you to death; to make you laugh so hard you pee your pants or cry like a little boy who just dropped his ice cream cone; to make you mindlessly spend gobs of money on useless crap or give gobs of money to find a cure for cancer.
Classical rhetoric, or the rhetoric taught in ancient Greece and Rome, is the systematic study of how language can do all this. There are lots of terms which have come to us in a mix of Latin or Greek that may seem complicated at first, but really, it all makes perfect sense.
Let’s consider the following statement: “My son is not the quiet type.” This is an example of litotes, or understatement, which often uses a negative to state a positive, as in “Beowulf did not lack courage when he ripped Grendel’s arms off.” He did, however, tick off Grendel’s mother with his “no lack of courage,” but that has nothing to do with rhetoric and I digress.
My point is, “my son is not the quiet type” sounds nicer than “my son can’t keep his mouth shut,” which is an example of hyperbole, or exaggeration. You might use litotes with your child’s teacher—you don’t want to prejudice him/her against your child but can’t lie, either, because he/she will figure out the truth eventually. Hyperbole, on the other hand, works well as a statement of complaint to your best friend, who does not hold your child’s future college prospects in her hands and will no doubt lend a sympathetic ear to your suffering.
See what I mean? You’re already using classical rhetoric without knowing it, but just imagine the power you could have if you knew enough to manipulate language deliberately to bring about a desired effect. And if you can consciously manipulate language, you will readily spot its use by others who wish to manipulate you.
Our little darlings can be amazingly skillful rhetoricians at a very young age. My own 8-year-old Odysseus* is a lovely example of a child who, left to his own devices, would have become master of the universe long ago if not for my ability to counter his devious rhetorical skills with very non-rhetorical discipline. Now that he is too big for me to pick up and carry to his room, however, my rhetorical skills are more important than ever.
Consider this real-life example of heuresis, or the discovery of multiple arguments, also referred to by the Latin term inventio. My little ones are not allowed to drink soda except under very special circumstances that involve unpleasant bodily fluids. Even then, they are limited to non-caffeinated options. One day recently, my son saw me drinking a can of coke that was labeled “decaffeinated.”
He can read now, which really complicates life, doesn’t it?
I saw his brain process this snippet of information and knew what was coming. In the chirpy tone of a physicist who just solved a sticky problem with string theory, he delivered the opening salvo of this rhetorical skirmish:
“Mom, that coke is decaffeinated. That means I can drink it!”
In this statement, we see logos at work. Logos, or an appeal to logic, is one of three types of appeals used in argument. In this particular case, however, my darling son’s logos fell to pieces in the face of my syllogism:
“Soda is bad for you. Decaffeinated coke is a soda. Therefore, decaffeinated coke is bad for you.”
Honestly, this syllogism is seriously flawed. “Bad” is a weak word, too vague to stand in court. What does it mean that soda is bad? Who determines soda is bad for you? But as sophisticated as he is, little Odysseus did not yet recognize this vulnerability in my argument, so he displayed his talent for heuresis and simply flexed to a different appeal. He came up with this beauty:
“Mommy, every time I see you drinking a coke, I feel really left out, and it hurts my feelings.”
Ahhh. Pathos. The appeal to emotion. Let’s hear it again because it really shows a genius at work. Savor each word out loud in as pitiful a voice as you can muster:
“Mommy, every time I see you drinking a coke, I feel really left out, and it hurts my feelings.”
Note the shift from “mom” to the more child-like “mommy.” Nice touch.
Some of you may have fallen for this verbal knife to the heart, but not me. The armor of rhetoric shields me from such attacks. I deflected his thrust with a hard-hitting combination of the “deliberative topic of the disadvantageous” (“soda rots your teeth and makes you fat”) and a somewhat unconventional reverse-psychology ethical appeal (“I hope you are smarter than your mother when you grow up and don’t drink soda”).
This rendered little Odysseus speechless. After all, mommy just implied that she isn’t smart, didn’t she? Hmm. He was stumped. For now. Eventually, these “shock and awe” tactics will no longer work, and he will find a way to use them against me, especially when he is a teenager and fully prepared to believe that mommy is more than just “not smart;” she is a complete and utter idiot.
Until then, I’ll brush up on my classical rhetoric in hopes of staying a step ahead of my little Odysseus. And since the benefits of classical rhetoric are not limited to parenting, I’ll also strengthen myself against the marketing folks trying to convince me I need an iPhone, the politicians vying for my vote, and my darling husband who, for some reason, doesn’t understand why I need to spend more money on rubber stamps.
As you can see, classical rhetoric is enormously useful for the modern mommy, and I hope you’ll stick around for periodic essays that explore the devious strategies our children use to manipulate us and even more devious strategies we can use to manipulate them.**
*Classical character of Greek epic poetry made famous to modern high school students by Homer, the blind—and completely fictitious—poet. Odysseus cunningly talks his way out of many a nasty scrape.
**If you have any examples of your children’s rhetorical skill, please email them to me for possible analysis on this blog. We can have A LOT of fun with this.
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