A Good Life

Everyone in my family maintains that my great-grandmother Johanna was an intelligent and insightful woman. There are, however, but a few statements that have been handed down from her. “You can tell a fool by his laughter,” is one of them.

My great-grandmother didn’t talk as much as she worked hard – all her life right up to the end when I got a chance to meet her briefly. It was a life just like the lives of most people she knew: A life defined by work consisting mostly of housework and subsistence farming. Just making a meal involved myriad steps starting with pulling up water from a well and splitting kindle wood.

Each day started early and ended only when the chores were done and another day of life had been successfully mastered. Survival, just sixty years ago, required skills that combined high levels of know-how, problem-solving, and ingenuity surpassed only by prevailence.

Not once did my great-grandmother wondered about her role in life, her personal strength and weaknesses, let alone her goals. She quietly smiled at the notion of friendships and probably would have looked stymied if asked whether she was happy.

Sure enough her life wasn’t easy and she may not have lived up to her full potential, but there was no doubt in her or anyone else’s mind that it was a purposeful life.

Green Shoes

It’s the rainy season. My shoes are shrouded in a delicate veil of green, my family videos have acquired a trendy pattern of white fuzzy spots, and my pillows are scented…hum, how shall I describe this extravagant fragrance. The only word that comes to my mind is MOLD. Yes, indeed, it’s mold season.

Little spores are floating through the air, settling here and sometimes there thus unsettling everyone everywhere.

I was warned about the video tapes so Susan copied them onto DVDs for me a while ago. Thanks, girl!! Still, it was not a happy moment when I dropped ‘Our Wedding Date’ into the black garbage bag to the likes of Shrek, Forest Gump, and The Usual Suspects. Ah, yes, life in the tropics! But at least we have electricity to waste again…

nothing but

soon I will feel

the scraping nails
of your desperation

the sour breath
of you fear

the darting presence
of you anger

as nothing but a memory

Connected

Have you checked your drawers lately? I used to have broken pens and dull scissors in mine. But lately I have worthless items of an entire new category – and value – piling up in there: several headsets, splitters, 32MB memory cards, 8mm film, two non-digital cameras, and…let’s see…a clunky portable DVD player. What to do with all that stuff? Toss it?

I used to feel bad about tossing out yet another highlighter gone raspy. But tossing a camera? The good news in my case is that I live in a country where people still know how to fix broken things. There is a whole underground economy of used electronical items that trade hands for moderate prices and help pay the rent for those who fix them.

That’s not the case in the so-called First World. There, products are bought, used, and trashed as soon as a newer model hits the market. And, of course, there always will be a newer model. Now it’s the iPhone, next might be the iFriend, followed by the iFriend Pro. Am I being just a tiny bit cynical? Let’s just face it: There is no way of staying out of the consumerism race. And believe me, I tried.

Years ago, I proudly refused to clutter my existence with an answering machine, and that sure didn’t earn me any brownie points. Then, I said ‘no’ to digital gadgetry. Well, that stance didn’t last long either.

So now I am Ms. iPod (I actually own two), with all the little itsy bitsy ever-notted cables that go along with them. I also own several digital voice recorders, a digital camera, and camcorder – and, of course, with all that an abundance of cables and chargers.

But that’s just for now. I am sure there will be more stuff out on the market soon to satiate my craving to stay connected – plugged into the lives of friends, family, and Oprah, my past, and the pulse of the things to come. Because that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Staying connected.

Fear Factor

Zoë is sitting across from me at the table: Arms folded over her chest, chin down – a serious frown announces her resistance to me and my attempts at bullying her through the last of five story problems. It’s one in which Timmy is supposed to figure out how many boxes of overly sweet raisin treats will be left over if he has thirty-four of them to give away to six of his miserable little friends. Honestly, I can’t blame her.

In a way, we are both stuck in this. I know I need a break. Yet, I feel I can’t let her off the hook. It’s just one last math problem and she is almost done. But she has had it. It’s 11:15am.

“You are making this pretty hard on both of us, wasting all this time and energy over nothing!!” I let her know. In the end, however, I do let her off the hook – both her and myself. Doing so doesn’t feel right, but it is the best I can manage right then. So, both of us are taking a break from math, Timmy, and each other.

Five minutes into the break, as I am hammering away on the keyboard in my study, Zoë comes into the room and sits down next to me heaving a sigh that seems to come from a long ways down in her belly, “I am sorry, Mom,” she whispers, “It’s just that I am not afraid of you.”

Go figure!

A Case of Mistaken Identity

Why is it that most people seem to confuse who they are with what they do? I am a teacher, I am a swim instructor, I am a tax attorney. Why is it that they choose to reduce their individuality to professional terminology? Maybe it feels safer than saying, I ‘work as’ a teacher, swim instructor, or tax attorney, which sounds more transient, as if you haven’t found your true vocation.

But what if you work as a garbage collector, INS officer, or as a prison ward? Maybe that would be a box one doesn’t even really want to fit in. I have actually heard people working in less desirable jobs paraphrase: Instead of saying ‘I am a garbage collector’ they will say, for instance, that they 'work in' waste management. After all, anything that includes the term ‘management’ tends to acquire some of the glitter attributed to the good old gray back occupation of ‘management’ – even if all that it amounts to is picking up people’s empty milk cartons and smelly leftovers.

Alternatively, one may hear someone saying that s/he is 'working for' the INS or for the state prison system thereby giving the profession a sheen of duty-fulfillment and obligation. The intention is to prompt a reaction along the lines of ‘Ah, yes, that’s a very important job for society.’ And again, identity is defined: We must be dealing with an upright citizen living up to a difficult job.

Sometimes, it fees like people are hiding behind job titles that consist of a sheer endless number of arbitrary nouns like Principal Assistant Director suggesting importance where there is none. Clearly, that’s not a safe thing to do. A big bluff calls for a big laugh.

Although almost anyone can probably empathize with the wish to be someone, most people like to debunk someone else’s bluff, or cut down whatever it is people do: Lawyers are sharks, doctors are in it for the money, teachers are know-it-alls, etc. What is it about identity – ours and that of others – that makes us so nervous?

I can tell you, personally, I don’t particularly enjoy having to write ‘mother’ as my profession on every form, be it at the doctor’s, immigration, or the Department of Motor Vehicles. My instinct tells me that puts me in a pretty small box somewhere between garbage collector and know-it-all. However, alternatively, ‘homemaker’ is just another bluff, ‘homeschooling parent’ reveals more than I want to, and leaving it blank slightly understates the fact that I am working my ass off 24/7.

So, where does that leave me? Maybe I should start calling myself ‘Lady Madonna.’ Now there is a case of mistaken identity.

The Homeschooling High Five

A lot of people who comment on my blog blurb write to me about the homeschooling. Quite a few of them are considering homeschooling but have some trepidations. So, I think I will write a little more on that subject from now on in the hope to provide a little insight.

This is what’s really great about homeschooling: Freedom. The freedom to pick (or not to pick) a curriculum, the freedom to make up classes as you go, mix and match, and borrow what you like and improve on it if you can. Then, there is the obvious freedom to pick the time and place for homeschooling: The ‘when,’ ‘where,’ and ‘for how long.’ And, of course, there is the freedom to do it on your own or to include family and friends, and, last but not least, there is the freedom to have the entire world as an educational platform.

Hum. Too much freedom maybe? Is all that freedom talk just a little bit overwhelming? After all how can one be sure to make the right choice? What about state laws, SATs, and everyone else’s opinion? What if your kid doesn’t like it or thinks you stink and, worse even, what if s/he is right?

True. In fact, homeschooling may turn out to be the worst choice you will have ever made just like going or not going to law school. But you will never know unless you try it. Just remember, you clicked on this posting, so maybe just maybe you ought to give it a try.

Here are five reasons why we really enjoy homeschooling:

1 – We get to spend a lot of quality time together;

2 – We know each other and feel comfortable being completely honest with each other;

3 – We learn how to problem-solve and how to be good team-players in daily life;

4 – We have time to explore answers to the mind-boggling questions of life;

5 – We can pack up and call it a field trip to the car repair shop or the Roman Forum if
if we want to!


Maybe soon you will have your own reasons…

War of Smiles

If you smile you’ll feel better. Maybe you have heard that one before. It actually works. We smile when we are happy and, likewise, we feel a light wave of happiness come over us when we smile.

If you follow that line of thought you are on your way to positive thinking and its many schools, advocates, and exorbitantly expensive workshops. All it does, however, is activate the hard-wiring and chemical potions already existent in our bodies. It’s a way to trick our brain in order to make it more responsive and, hence, amenable to perform tasks such as problem-solving. It’s a good technique to know and use when needed.

Smiles are also used to win friends and – virtually – win support: I smile, therefore, I am successful. Political figures cannot help but smile; some of them, as it seems, do so quite out of control.

Playgroup mothers are skilled smilers as well. After all, they dearly need support: Hi-I-am-Nancy-and-this-is-my-daughter-Kimberly. You may have met Nancy and Kimberly before, they are looking for friends and information on where to find hand-me-downs.

But then, there are all these other people who smile although they stand nothing to win, or so it seems. People who hold open doors, give directions, and stand next to you in the elevator. Most of them are Americans. Americans even smile when you bump into them, stare at them, or spill iced tea into their laps.

When I first came to the States, that fact amazed me. But it also put me, the glum German, under pressure. Somehow, I intuitively realized that smiling was not just a national pastime but an unspoken doctrine. So I practiced. I paid close attention to the way Americans smile: mouth open, tongue down, all teeth showing.

I also practiced the control smile (this one is with your mouth closed) – the one used for the spilled iced tea the one that signals superhuman self-control, like no-twit-is-going-to-ruin-my-day. It’s a passive-aggressive smile, no question, but as such extremely powerful.

If one wanted to summarize American culture it could be: The last one smiling wins.

Time to Pay the Piper - Again

It’s not only terrible, disturbing, and sad, it’s also really pathetic. Suicide missions like the one in Glasgow and the many other ones committed elsewhere around the world are a symptom of a problem we refuse to acknowledge: Whether it’s a suicide attack, a mass shooting, genocide, or some other form of violent destruction or otherwise blatant disrespect of life, 99% of it is committed by men.

To keep the hate mail, verbal abuses, and death threats to a manageable bit size, however, I will proffer some atonement by clarifying that, of course, not all men are murderers. That being said, however, it is amazing, don’t you think, how many men can become murderers given the ‘right’ circumstances. Just check out accounts of war crimes, torture, and death camp atrocities committed by ‘normal’ blokes.

If one has the courage and is willing to face the sad and disturbing reality of humanity there is one blatant fact screaming at us loudly: MEN CAN BE A THREAT TO LIFE.

But that fact is never stated. Maybe it’s a given but I wonder if it is such a well-known problem, why is it not being solved. After all we are tackling problems such as nuclear proliferation, climate change, and the odds of quantum theory. Why not devote some time to the oddities of the male psyche? It can’t be that difficult to figure out.

I’ll just give it shot: A male child is four times more likely to develop autism than a female child. Autistic children experience social interaction as confusing and as offering little reward. They are usually drawn towards the world of objects or abstract concepts and, generally, manifest an inability of feeling empathy. The symptoms of autism can be more or less severe and sometimes go undiagnosed.

Now let’s take this a step further: In day to day life men manifest low levels of autistic behavior more often than women and if under pressure are capable of extreme acts of anti-social behavior. Mild forms include electric train collectors, car fanatics, computer freaks. The tougher form includes all those daddies who after thinking it over for a while decide that having a family is not that sexy after all. And from here we can just follow the continuum to the guy who thinks that a mini skirt is an invitation for rape.

The potential to objectify human beings is a truly worrisome element of the male psyche that should call a lot more attention than it does. Why, in a world that loves to break with taboos, are we so reluctant about this one: The blank spots of the male psyche. Could it be because men are still the ones who control politics, markets, and public opinion? Just a thought.

However, by thus implicitly condoning male transgressions and putting off needed research, censoring public debate, and failing to propose viable solutions to address this problem, all men become implicated in the crimes committed by a minority of them. All men and those women who think that there is nothing they can do anyway.

We all pay, folks.