Comma Dot Comma

My parents, like everybody’s, probably did a lot of things raising me that messed me up in one way or another (Hi, Mom! Hi Dad!). When I was a kid I was sure that one of those things was my mom’s health food crusade. At its peak, chocolate and sugar were banned from the house in favor of honey, carob, and fruit juice. I remember the fruit roll-ups fad that swept the elementary school when we were not allowed to have fruit roll-ups. Instead, my mom made all-natural fruit puree and put it in the food dehydrator on a cookie tray, then cut the resulting stiff, brown sheet into rectangles. It actually tasted pretty good, but I was swept with debilitating lunchroom shame, gnawing a thick, diarrhea-colored piece of apricot-pear puree instead of peeling a real fruit roll-up off of the wrapper in long strips and wrapping it around my finger. I was sure I was scarred forever.

Of course, that doesn’t seem so bad these days, from the long perspective the years provide. I never buy fruit roll-ups; when I see them going for 99 cents in the produce section of the store I think, “That’s just sugar and food coloring! Rip-off!” Another thing I used to complain about, Easter Sunday, now seems downright idyllic. The night before Easter, we’d put carrots in our shoes for the easter bunny, which he would mysteriously replace in the night with a brightly colored easter egg. Before church, we’d search the house for carefully hidden baskets. Then we’d put on our frilliest dresses and lace-edged ankle socks and shiny white shoes (or a suit and clip on tie, in the case of my brother) and head off to Easter Mass. My dad and I were both lectors, so once in awhile I got the chance to read from the Bible in front of the whole church. I loved singing the Easter hymns, especially “Joyful, Joyful.” After Mass, we’d head home for an age-graded easter egg hunt and a feast of handed down family recipes, usually prepared by my dad.

The point of contention in the family was the content of the Easter baskets themselves. If my mom had had her way, they would have contained only trail mix, carob malt balls, sugar free gum and travel games. My dad’s influence meant we each got a big chocolate bunny to eat bit by bit over the course of a week or so. But trail mix? It just seemed so… lame. So un-Eastery! How could we possibly celebrate the day with peanuts and raisins? There was a fair amount of eye-rolling. Scarred for life, my siblings and I suggested to each other. The deprivation! The utter lack of sugar! It was downright un-American!

Last Sunday my mom and I were reminiscing together about the good old days, which I now miss. She is still the most health-conscious person that I know, but she has mellowed quite a bit since my elementary school years. The subject of carob came up and she laughed. “It’s a good thing I’m not that way anymore,” she said. “Yes, mom,” I said, “But I don’t get to benefit from it since you no longer give me Easter baskets!” This weekend a heavy package arrived in the mail. it was a wall sconce, brim-full of chocolates and jelly beans. “A real, adult Easter basket,” read the note. A sweet gift, in more ways than one. I called my mom to thank her. She had a confession to make: the jelly beans were sugar-free. She insists she didn’t notice it until it came time to rip open the package, but I wonder…

It’s been a week of record highs. Even up at the Grand Canyon, where we went with my parents last Thursday, the sun wanted to press right through one side of my face and out the other. The ravens rose and dove as we crept down a trail that carved into the cliff face and snaked out along ridges. We descended until we caught sight of the Colorado River, an oily green streak far below. Dr. G had arcs of red dust that settled on the backs of his legs. The persistent dust crept into the corners of my eyes and dusted my scalp. My ears were full of dust and my nose ran red. The cell phone died searching for a signal. A sharp breeze whirled through and knocked Dr. G’s hat over the ridge, in sight but good as gone. They have books there, in the big store not far from the edge, about all the ways that people have died. We didn’t feel even close to dying.

Dr. G considers himself extremely safe in the classroom. His classes are filled with police officers so if anything went down, they’d totally be on it. Whereas a biology professor might have a lot of students who are handy with a pipette but that skill doesn’t go far in an emergency. I am loathe to think what could happen in a literature theory classroom where the most capable students could only quote Stanley Fish at the source of danger.

On the first day of class this semester, Dr. G had a judge in his class. Impressive. He was a little relieved when the judge dropped the course. The last thing you want when you’re teaching is a judge in the front row judging you.

Dr G. still has to fear the occasional bout of bad student writing, though nothing as terrifying as this has yet crossed his path:

“Our societies flaws and errors are a direct result of our own ignorant contraception’s, and preconceived connotations. Being that there have been no striking increases in overall handgun-associated deaths, or handgun interrelated crime deaths within any diverse subgroups, blacks, females, teenagers and young adults, one is able to deduce that handguns are becoming more and more of a less concern in our society.” (Snagged from Total Drek)

Recently I combatted boredom by pulling my 8th grade yearbook off the shelf. It is primarily an excruiciating record of self-punishment; I have signatures in there from all the girls who had formally rejected me, via elaborately folded note, from their clique. I’d forgotten about that. They each wrote variations on, “Well, we aren’t THAT close anymore, but have a great summer!” Ouch! Thank goodness for Annie, who had voluntarily extracted herself from the clique the year before and subsequently accepted into her circle, with cheery good grace, all newcomers and newly rejected. I didn’t appreciate what a feat her unflagging kindness was at the time. I was just glad I had someone to eat lunch with who didn’t regale me with veiled insults and calculated inside jokes. We would walk to the candy truck parked across the street from the school to buy Now R Laters and Nerds. I think she’s doing well. Our little sisters keep in touch, though we no longer do.

I decided it would be a fun project to google everybody who signed my yearbook. I lived in a small logging town and wasn’t particularly popular, so it wasn’t that hard to go through all of them. Mostly I found boys because so many of the girls changed their names when they got married. Even though I myself tacked on an extra last name when I tied the knot, I was resentful of the way my childhood peers were thwarting my spying attempts. Why couldn’t they just stick with their original name, for goodness sakes? Oh well.

The guy who wrote “Have a new friend in you old house that you are moving to” is now in computer science grad school. The leader of the boy clique that paralleled my former girl clique is doing special ops for the marines. A girl who moved away the same year I did, hoping to get started in modelling, is now an optometrist and has a testimonial video online for her university. And so on! It’s a fun game.

Back from Oregon! We set foot in the Willamette Valley a few days after one of the rainiest weeks on record. Even the pavement seemed squishy. Within two seconds of being outside I felt my perpetually chapped lips begin to absorb the moisture of the Oregon air. Ahhhh….. the relief! There was fog and a few showers, but most of the week was clear. Dr. G and I set off into the woods in search of a Christmas tree. We wandered for hours down tinier and tinier trails and roads, to no avail. The roads and trails were covered with huge fallen trees that had lost their purchase in the saturated soil. Undisturbed frost had grown inch-long crystals on trees and grasses. It was all very lovely, but there were no good Christmas trees. We gave up and headed for a tree farm, where we acquired a lovely stout fir that put all those woodlands trees to shame.

The week also included playing with a kitten that purred constantly, building a chocolate-mint graham cracker house, going to a craft fair, doing our favorite hike (a three mile climb through old growth forest, with the trail beginning across the street from the house), and attending a family party. We went to the craft fair to do a little detective work.

Yes, detective work. For the past few years, Dr. G’s parents have received handwritten Christmas cards from “Glenn and Marie.” No last names, no return address. His parents don’t know them. They talk about their grandchildren, their illnesses, and their hobbies. This year they even invited them to a party at their place because it has been “TOO LONG”. They also included a clue: Glenn would be selling wooden bowls at the fair. However, there was no one there named Glenn exhibiting wooden bowls or anything else. I think it must be a joke, and a pretty good one.

Glad to be home. Today it’s raining in Phoenix. It’s more like mud falling from the sky than rain. If you want to see some pictures from Oregon, go to our flickr page and check out the first two pages.

This past weekend I was in Portland, Oregon for the wedding of a college friend. It was a simple, lovely affair, and Sarah looked beautiful in her beaded gown and tasteful green shoes and Jonathan looked handsome and happy. I would post a picture if I had not forgotten the camera back at the house where I was staying. One of the things I noticed about the wedding was that the lighting was just right: neither too bright nor too dark, just warm and intimate. Sadly, we missed the grand exit when Sarah donned a “muppets” coat for the run to the car. Gotta love the whimsy! My favorite part of the ceremony was when they said their vows, which they had written themselves. They were heartfelt and real. It seems like only yesterday I spent a weekend with them in New York, politely examining the window displays and billboards so they could smooch! ; )

The other really fun part of the too-brief trip was hanging out with other college friends, the same gang we hung out with in Alaska back in April. Aaron and Irene hosted Dr. G and me and Nate and Betsy and their gang. I was coloring with one of the kids, and we took a break to count to forty in silly voices and rhyme back and forth, and I thought to myself, “Gee, this is entertaining, and not far different from how I spend my time when I’m alone.” (Too much information?)

Nate reminded me of the funny “science” papers of Jeremy Lavine, about lightning and El Nino. I wish I had been subversive enough to write stuff like that when I was in high school. The poor teacher’s comments are classic– you can tell that s/he has no idea what to do with this kid. Sample line from an essay: “They think lightning is a lie perpetrated by people with a vested interest. At their own peril!!!”

And awhile back, another friend reminded me of these Weight Watcher’s Recipe Cards. Watch out for the Mackerelly! (Warning, occasional cuss words).

It so happens that I have two adorable nephews, whom I dote upon as a good auntie should. They are probably the nicest, smartest kids in the universe (apart from the children of all my friends, who are also the nicest and smartest, in a different way). I don’t blog about my nephews much because their parents retain chief bragging rights. But I have explicit permission from Noah’s dad on this one.

Noah is 3 and a half, and when he speaks he articulates at least as well as Laurence Olivier, if not better. Lately he’s been really into rhyming; he even rhymes himself to sleep. Over Thanksgiving weekend I heard more rhymes than I heard in an entire year of poetry grad school (plus one morning he woke me up early to ask what it would be like, if we all had to bury our food in the dirt before we ate it). It’s fun to get Noah to say multisyllabic words because he pronounces them so accurately, in such a high-pitched little voice. Recently my brother Ryan (his dad) was playing this game.

Ryan: “hey noah, can you say encyclopedia?”
Noah: “no, i can’t say that”
Ryan: “try it”
Noah: “encyclopedia”
Ryan: “can you say deciduous?”
Noah: “deciduous.”
Ryan: “can you say reciprocate?”
Noah: “reciprocate. what does that mean?”
Ryan: “to do it back”
(ryan hugs noah, laughing and impressed; noah hugs back)
Ryan: “what are you doing?”
Noah: “I’m reciprocating!”

I don’t have a recent picture of the two of them together, but here’s Noah dressed up as a sea lion, followed by Ryan with his other son, Judah. You can’t see Ryan’s nose, but hey, it’s an overrated feature anyway.

Dr. G, being a criminologist, is a bona-fide expert on crime. He knows more than most people in the world about when, where, why and how crime happens in America. This is why I love to stand near him in gatherings when the subject of crime comes up. People almost always express a sense that society is getting worse and worse, that people in general are more selfish and violent, and property and children are less and less safe.

Every time, Dr. G kindly and reasonably steers the conversation away from impressions and back to reality. “Actually,” he says, “crime has been falling steadily since 1992. In fact, it is at its lowest rates since the early 1970’s.” America is as safe or safer now than it was when my parents graduated high school. My friends’ children live in greater safety than I did as a child, and the odds are strongly in their favor that they will grow up without ever being lured into a car or fed poisoned candy or shot on the school grounds. I expect to go through my whole life without my home being robbed. As far as crime is concerned, the situation keeps getting better and better.

Of course, government officials and media outlets have something to gain by creating a sense of danger and societal unraveling. They can win supporters and viewers that way. A few weeks ago, I was channel surfing and stopped on a local news update about a criminal who had tried to contact a potential victim through the Craiglist ride share board. The show indicated that, therefore, Craigslist is inherently dangerous. That’s ridiculous; thousands of people safely exchange goods and services via Craigslist every day. And yet these distortions and extrapolations are typical. Even straight news can lend an impression of doom, by the simple fact that the worst events are the most newsworthy. By sheer repetition we come to think that anomalies are the norm.

So in the froth of whipped up emotion and vague anxiety, I love it when Dr. G wades in to gently relieve people of their fear. It’s a great public service, to be the bearer of good news. To say, in effect: the social contract still holds. You can trust each other, you can look strangers in the eye and be unafraid.

We met Alain in the country of Benin in 1999, at our little neighborhood church with its concrete block walls and wooden benches. We were all there because, unlike most churches in the area, this one conducted services in French, rather than one of the local languages of the city. Though it was a congregation of under fifty people, they came from all over the country and a few foreign locations.

Alain and a few other Congolese used to walk from the refugee camp  to participate in the church. He was in his mid-twenties then, very tall and so thin his skin seemed laid right over his bones. He’d read scripture passages in a calm, mellifluous voice, and our pastor was constantly trying to convince him to join the ministry. There were few capabable, spiritually mature men around, and Alain seemed like a prime candidate. However, the pastor’s many stories of poverty, persecution, curses and threats sabatoged his recruiting mission. Alain, had, after all, hidden under a bed while militants shot up his house, and he wasn’t eager for more trouble.

Our friendship with Alain developed in long stretches of hanging out at our apartment. Alain would help us with our French and we’d help him practice his English and loan him books. His education had been interrupted, but he was anxious to keep learning however he could. When we left Benin at the end of our two-year stint, Alain was still stuck there, wondering what to do with himself. Rumors kept coming from home. Was it safe to return yet? One relative would say yes, another no.

We kept in touch via email as Alain struggled to find a place. In all the messages he sends us, he signs off, “To God be the Glory,” whether the news is good or bad, and for a long stretch it was usually bad.He was young, smart, reliable, and full of dreams, and door after door had been shut in his face. He tried to get a political asylum visa to America, and failed several times despite his stories of fear and violence. I had friends working in NGO’s near his hometown, but there were no jobs open. A few years ago, his father died suddenly of a heart attack, and as the oldest son, Alain’s responsibility for financial contributions to the family increased. He started a small trading business between Benin and Congo-Brazzaville, but it didn’t bring in much profit.
Then, we heard he got hired by an American offshore drilling company, to God be the Glory! Then, a short, exuberant email– he was engaged! Things were looking up. He got promoted at work, and would have to do a week-long training outside Houston. Perhaps we could get together afterwards? We started making tentative plans for his visit. A few days before he was due to arrive, he sent a text message that his long-sick mother had died. “I am an orphan now. It is God’s will. To God be the Glory.” He buried her and the next day got on a plane. Now Alain was wholly responsible for the well-being of all his younger brothers and sisters.

We didn’t make any firm plans until Alain got to the states, because most of the West Africans we know tend to treat plans, dates, and obligations a little more loosely than most Americans. You just gradually push things into shape, adding bits and pieces, until an organic growth of a plan accrues, like lichen creeping across a rock. We exchanged phone calls and emails throughout the week of his training. Plane or overland? New York first, or Phoenix? Would he like to see the Grand Canyon perhaps, or attend a class at the university?

On Thursday Alain got a message that someone else was building on the property he had just purchased. He cancelled the New York part of his trip, and was having trouble deciding about Phoenix.

Then he happened to mention his vacation plans to his boss, who wasn’t pleased. The company had sponsored his business trip, and if he deviated from the schedule, Alain would have to pay his own return flight. Anyway, they wanted him to begin work right away. If it were an African company, things would have been much more flexible; a person could arrange a reasonable compromise by having a friendly conversation with the right person. The “by the book” attitude of Alain’s new employer took him by surprise.They told him he had to be out of the hotel by 12 pm Sunday, no ifs ands or buts. Alain regretfully cancelled his trip to Phoenix.

Later that night, he sent us an email: soldiers had begun random arrests in his country once again, and his family was encouraging him to do everything possible to stay awhile longer in the states. But his ticket was booked, he had to leave his hotel, he knew no one in Texas except representatives of his company, which had made its wishes abundantly clear. If he stayed, he might avoid trouble for awhile, but he would likely fail once again to get asylum status, and be sent back once his visa ran out. He’d have to pay his own ticket back to Congo, and he would have lost his job. His fiancee and brothers and sisters, meanwhile, were without his protection. Alain went back. He beseeched us to pray for his safety, to God be the glory. I called his this morning, but he had already gone.

This weekend I was on a mission: to touch the Pacific Ocean with my bare hands. It took some doing, but I managed it. First I had to drive six hours west across the desert and the L.A. basin, listening to each radio station for about three minutes before it faded into static. Then I had to find Dr. G, who was at a conference downtown. Then I had to help my little brother find me, as he was also driving into the city for the weekend. Many attempts to thwart him were made, including a fender-bender, bad traffic, and inexplicable tunnels and one-way streets near the hotel. He persevered and at last arrived. I also had to eat some yummy pumpkin and prosciutto pizza, endure an unannounced power outage due to “maintenance” and play constant phone tag with various family members. Finally I was in Santa Monica, trudging across a quarter-mile of sand to the water’s edge. There was a lot of trash in the water (pork chop bones, anyone?) and it didn’t smell so hot, but the seaguls were enjoying it. I put my hands in anyway.

I also visited a vintage clothing store recommended by a stylish friend of mine, where I scored some funky barely-used shoes. They look like leather sneakers, with skinny velcro straps instead of laces. The funky part is the tongue– a bright cartoon print, like children’s bedsheets. The brand logo on the heel uses the same print. Very japanse hipster. Now that the weather has become amenable to shoes other than flip-flops, I’ll be wearing them, like, totally, every day, and stuff, man. Rockin’. Trippindicular.

Then it was off to visit my grandparents, who once drove from a party in Palm Springs to Prescott, AZ, just to see if they would like it. We finally met up at my sister’s place in Long Beach for fun and conversation. This time we wisely left the Settler’s of Cataan on the shelf and watched the american version of The Office instead. We ate Mexican food and slept well. Church in the morning, fancy sandwiches, and a long drive back. I tell you, there was not a single occasion in Southern California that I got onto a freeway and was able to drive directly to my destination. Time of day and direction of travel didn’t seem to matter; traffic jams were inevitable. After sitting in traffic for an hour in Riverside, I begin to see why so many people are willing to leave their oceans and scenic byways and art and buzz and restaurants and celebrity sightings for the less happening but less crowded desert cities of Arizona. Me likey.