John Oliver on FIFA and the World Cup

And here is comedian, TV host John Oliver expressing with great comedy the same ambivalence toward the World Cup that I spoke of in my previous post.

The Beautiful Game?

I love sports.  I watch them, I play them, I read about them, I talk about them with friends, always trying not to sound too bro-ishly knowledgeable, even though I usually am. ;-)

I've been so conflicted the past several days by the nature of sport.  The meta-narrative that encompasses the global sports marketplace has moved so far beyond the frivolity of stick ball in the cul-de-sac or kids shooting hoops after school. The pick-up soccer of so many kids' youth grows up and fades into a global scheme of underhand deals, machismo, abuse and greed.  Yes, greed is the prime mover, that which compels people who ostensibly love soccer as much as I to become blinded by power and money and to tarnish the joy of the game that started for them on a beat-up patch of grass in their hometown.   

As elated as I am for the start of the World Cup, the chance to cheer on my US National Team and to see Joga Bonito on display, I am well aware of the discontent within the very borders that will host the games. Many Brazilians, though they love futebol, feel hoodwinked by their government or by FIFA and bemoan the lavish spending on football pitches while children go hungry, while infrastructure crumbles. 

Millions will gather to celebrate soccer, and their respective countries.  People from different backgrounds, economic classes, regions will be unified under their flag, unified in their love for the sport.   But then the greed. How many sex slaves and prostitutes will roam the streets of Brazil in these coming weeks forced to work by greedy pimps who know the business opportunity at their doorstep. This teeming, young, largely male mass of people will go looking for something other than football between games, and what abuse, drugs, coercion will have been wrought to make sure they find it.

I love soccer, I hate the global business. I hate the betting syndicates that rig matches, the rich, powerful men in suits who make decisions for their own good rather than the good of the game or the globe.  The opportunistic pimps who take advantage of what should be a celebration and turn it to a nightmare for many women and girls.

And Then There's Qatar

As if the tension in Brazil doesn't cast enough pallor on the Copa Mundial, allegations of tremendous sketchiness abound in Qatar's successful bid to host the 2022 World Cup. The whole effort may topple if the allegations are proven.  The cynic in me feels there is little hope of that happening, but maybe, just maybe I'm wrong. Maybe there is too much evidence stacked against the greedy SOB's who have taken over our game, the beautiful game and made it into a trade-able commodity.   

But in Qatar, the scourge is far greater than bribery, blackmail or whatever else powerful people did to rig the vote.  Qatar has turned into a modern slave-state thanks to the World Cup.  Too many migrant workers have already died in Qatar under terrible, hot, slave-like labor conditions, and there are many stadiums left to build.  One life lost was too many, how many more are greedy construction corporations who are hand in hand with the Qatari government willing to sacrifice?  

Watch this ESPN E60 piece to learn more

So, you see, I'm conflicted, determined to pull good and beauty from the sport and do what I can to fight the greedy, ugly parts.

Go USA.

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Party Hardly - Bubbly Addendum!

Whelp.  If those couple of personality tests I took in highschool and college are to be trusted (believe me, I was BARELY in the camp of any of the letters) then I am a Myers Briggs ENFP.

Thusly, according to this fun little libation-matcher, I am "Champagne."  Lucky, bubbly me.  I guess I do bring life to a party.  

So, if I'm champagne, I at least get to be from a lovely region of France (oui!!), pair nicely with lots of different things, and can be fancied up with some Chambord (read: make-up, jewelry or other finery) for a Kir Royale, my favorite, highly-nostalgic apertif.  

And you? 
http://glossi.com/grace_vinolovers/64882-the-type-of-wine-you-are-according-to-your-myers-briggs-profile

Party Hardly

I’ve come to realize that I’m generally a great party GOER, a terrible party THROWER.  Sure, I’ve had many a casual dinner gathering here at the house, hosted a few Valentines parties, New Years get-togethers and the like, but no one will ever put them down in the pantheon of “great parties.” If they do, it won’t be because of the amazing sides, killer atmosphere or flashy decor, but for the people and the conversation and the BYOB wine they drank. (And maybe the raucous piano and guitar sing-alongs)

November and December are festive-season central.  Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, and most intimidatingly, my daughter’s birthday.  While Hadley is filled with joy and anticipation, I’m stewing over details like...what to do, who to invite, what to serve, when to gather.  My aversion to party-hosting is particularly acute for my kids because I love them so dearly I don’t want their birthday to suck.  Plus, I’m rather obsessed with things “working out” and making sure people have a good time, and aren’t disappointed, or overburdened.  I want them to think I’m creative and funny and with it and not completely lame because I buy a tray of nuggets and Publix cake for kid parties, or don’t have an awesome theme. 

I think I might have problems.  And I probably need to just be okay with my penchant for hosting “low-key” events.  

The thing is, I love a good party.  I will BRING the party, and maybe even food or wine, or an at-the-ready playlist of good tunes. Just don’t make me plan or host.  I’ve served as casual DJ at parties, been asked get the dancing going when everyone else is wall-flowering.  I’ll talk to strangers and enjoy connecting with people over small and big details (for a while, then that exhausts me).  I’ll bring the crazy white-elephant gift and whoop whoop when someone trades for the tacky boxers or the leg lamp. I’ll after-party with the bachelorette at a seedy dive-bar.  I may be exhausted afterward, but I'll enjoy it.  I think I might be an extrovert.

My friend Kristin is an AMAZING party host.  Her kid birthday parties are color-coordinated, fun, engaging, the food is adorable and kid-friendly and tasty.  There are marked glasses for adults, things on sticks in faux grass, seasonally appropriate decorations. There are games and beautifully packaged party favor bags for the kids.  I love that Kristin is just delights in that stuff. Its a beautiful thing. While I’m sure its a tiny bit stressful in the lead-up, she really loves to do it for her kids, and her friends, and we delight in it.   

The thought of getting together half the awesome stuff she does is purely exhausting to me, and doesn't seem enjoyable. 

So as my daughter’s birthday looms and the details remain unfinalized and I keep telling myself she’s just 4 and won’t care.  I just hope my friends and family know and love me enough to grant me grace about the poor party throwing thing.     

My babygirl is worth celebrating. Low-key throw-together or birthday-bash style, we’ll have lots of love.

And babyJesus is worth celebrating (which is why I’m really looking forward to GOING to a friend's Christmas party.) 

A Veteran Story

Eleven. Eleven. A day we honor those who have served our country in times of war and peace,  those men and women who gave themselves over to something bigger than themselves.  My Dad is one of those people who joined the US army.  But Dad wasn't born in the US, he was born in East Germany.  Some of his earliest memories involve fleeing to the woods around their town to escape bombs dropped from American planes.  Yet he found his way to Uncle Sam's doorstep.  And ran into some future veterans along the way.

I think about this story on Veterans Day, about the first Americans Dad ever met - US servicemen.  (This excerpt is from his memoirs, multi-year project he and I have labored through together.)

"Eventually, all bombardments and artillery stopped, and the rain of bombs and fire was

replaced by hundreds of thousands of leaflets floating and fluttering peacefully from

allied planes. The leaflets advised residents to surrender and lay down all weapons and

receive the American occupation forces. Our neighborhood was covered with paper

and we scurried around to collect the excess as cheap firewood. All civilians were

also instructed to prominently hang out white sheets of surrender from their houses

and apartments. Each house in our neighborhood quickly sprouted a white bed sheets

tacked to one of the windows. For the sake of our lives, we did what we were told:

display a white flag of surrender or be prepared to die. Not all in our neighborhood were

supportive of the new occupation. There were more than a few die-hard Nazi supporters

in our neighborhood who hung their white flags under duress, with tears in their eyes.

However, the majority of us were more than glad to surrender with the symbolic white

flag if it meant that the bombing would stop and the war would be over. We just wanted

to start living life again, as normally as we could amid piles of destruction. Our dreams

were understandable, but how does a family, a community start living again when a

sizable part of the city lay in ruins, with no food, no jobs, no infra-structure,

no water, no electricity, no stores, no public transportation, and

few glimmers of hope?

A day or two after white flags bloomed from neighborhood windows, the first convoy

of trucks loaded with American infantry slowly moved into our neighborhood.

They stopped only fifty yards from our house at the end of the street where Bernie and I

happened be outside playing. We eyed them carefully and found that they looked very

friendly - not at all like the cruel enemy they were accused of being. There must have

been at least twenty of them on the first truck. With smiles on their faces, they waved

for us to come over. We cautiously approached the green-clad soldiers as they started to

unload the trucks. We were in fearful awe, as if toy soldiers and trucks from a strange

land had materialized in front of us. One of the soldiers jumped off the back of the

truck and grabbed my shoulder in a friendly way, as if I had helped him off the truck.

He smiled and said something to Bernie and I in English, which of course we did not

understand. But the language barrier quickly evaporated as he handed my brother

and I a chocolate bar and a stick of Wrigley’s chewing gum. We were delighted by this exchange in the international language of candy! We quickly devoured the treats,

savoring every sweet calorie in our sustenance-deprived tummies. The soldiers laughed

and smiled a lot, which, combined with their “peace offering” was just what we needed

to allay our fears that the Americans were a ruthless enemy. That short meeting at the

end of our street was a tentative but positive beginning to the American occupation of our

city."

Dad's school picture in E Germany

Dad, United States Army

Gender (in)Equality in Tennis

A documentary film entitled Venus Vs aired on ESPN a few days ago.  I did not watch the piece, but from the previews I surmised it was about tennis great Venus Williams and her battle for equal prize money in women's tennis. 

ESPN surely planned this film to air during the final few days of it's Wimbledon coverage, highlighting the brave fight of one of America's most decorated athletes to gain equality in what has for more than a century been largely a "gentleman's game," most pointedly in the realm of compensation. 

I am a female, and an athlete, a tennis player, a tennis fan, and an advocate for initiatives like Title IV which opened the door to girls and women to realize their potential as athletes in schools where once they may not have been able to.   Which is why it has been a bit puzzling to me that since the airing of the Venus Vs previews, I've been so hung up on the issue of equal prize money for female tennis players.  I'm against it. 

I feel like the last several days of Wimbledon tennis have solidified my argument.  If you watched Thursday's first women's semifinal between Frenchwoman Marion Bartoli and Kirsten Flipkens of Belgium, you were treated to a little over an hour of tennis, culminating in a lop-sided victory for Bartoli.  The seemingly dis-satisfied crowd clapped politely, still working their way through their first glass of champagne, wondering why they paid that kind of money for women's semi's tickets. 

By contrast, Friday's first men's semi-final featured almost 5 hours of two of the worlds top players bludgeoning the ball at each other.  There were 'tweeners, turf dives, aces, winners from unbelievable court positions.  I was riveted, the crowd was going nuts, and when it was over, a victory for Novak Djokovic, both men were spent.

In light of these contrasting contests, it seems utterly unfair that Kirsten Flipkens, who may or may not have broken a sweat, should get the same check as Juan Martin Del Potro, who may still be in an ice-bath recovering.    The toll on the body is greater for men's players, there are more high-profile injuries, retirements, walk-overs.  Higher-risk, higher reward, right? Fortunately for the paying fans on ladies semi-final day, the second match was a fantastic one, giving them about 2.5 hours of great quality hitting.  Yet that "long" match was closer to the average length of a given men's match.

I'm not necessarily advocating for a change of the ladies format from best of 3 to best of 5, but just for honest consideration that the reward for winning these matches should not be equal (note: apparently many women's players are willing and in favor of moving to a best-of-5 format)

Mustn't tennis governing bodies consider the business of tennis?  Ticket demand, sponsors, merchandise sales.   Equal-pay advocates have argued that the women's game is more popular in many cases, and true, athletes like the Williams sisters carry a higher profile than most men's players. However, beyond them, and say, Sharapova, I think the high-profile scale has been tipping recently toward the boys. 

Consider that over the course of today's men's match, Wimbledon was able to offer 5 times more commercial spots for their official sponsors, sell 5 times more overpriced bowls of strawberries and cream, and get a bunch more clips on SportsCenter.

There was much hub-bub a few summers ago when the Japanese women's team, having recently lifted the World Cup trophy, were not flown to a tournament on a chartered plane, standard treatment for Japan's men's team that has has far fewer accolades.  That's an argument I can get on board with.  They all play 90 minutes, they all have hard training and travel schedules, and the ladies lifted the damn cup.  Fly them fancy, equal treatment.  But lets have some honest consideration about this tennis prize money thing.  It pains me to not be on board with Venus and Billy Jean here, but equal pay just doesn't make as much sense to me in tennis.

And for what it's worth, I'm pulling for the German and the Scot in the finals.  

Ryner's Immigrant Story Excerpt Part 2

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Chapter 28

New York and on to Grand Rapids

Once recovered from our seasickness, we all returned to the wonderful job of enjoying the journey.  Incredibly, the SS United States had suffered only minor damage during the storm, a testament to its sheer size and strength.   The storm set back the ship's schedule a bit, but in what seemed like no time at all, we spotted the coast of the United States.  Like flowers sprouting in spring, the city of New York slowly grew up from the flat horizon.  As the city came into frame before our very eyes, we were awed by how huge and prosperous it looked with its great skyscrapers.  Our hearts began to beat faster as we slowly entered New York Harbor.  We passed by famous Ellis Island, following the same journey that thousands before had taken.  In operation since 1892, Ellis Island had welcomed millions of immigrants like us to the United States.  A few decades before our arrival, immigration services and intake had moved from the island to a commercial pier in New York Harbor where we were headed. 

The great ship pulled into the dock and was tied down.  It took an hour or two to clear customs and collect our luggage. With some time to spare before our train left the city, our family of seven newcomers took the chance to shake off our sea legs and walk the bustling streets of New York.  The city seemed so jaw-droppingly massive, and the busyness made our heads spin, but did not quell our absolute elation at being in this new place, this new country that would be our home. Huge buildings that actually seemed to be scraping the sky surrounded us, and throngs of human beings walked briskly between office buildings, while yellow taxicabs buzzed up and down the streets.  We were fascinated by the myriad of clothing styles and cultures we saw. Even though we were dressed in unmistakably poor, European attire, nobody seemed to notice.  We quickly realized that we were in the beating heart of a totally international city.

After a warm meal and an ice cream cone, we headed to Grand Central Station where we would board our train to Detroit, then on to Grand Rapids.  Our ride to Michigan was a thrill.  The country we steamed through looked beautiful to us, and everything seemed so big!  We also couldn't help but notice how nice the buildings and streets looked.  We were so accustomed to the ravages of war damage written on every building face and street corner, that America seemed utterly pristine.  Before we knew it, the train had covered the eight hundred miles from New York and was slowly easing into the Grand Rapids train depot.  Our hearts began to beat faster as we pondered the incredible changes that we were about to experience.  A new country, a new language, new friends, and relatives that none of us, except Mother, had ever met in person.  We all scrambled off the train and Mother spotted Uncle Joe standing there to greet us with Aunt Marie, Aunt Marie's sister Katherine and her husband Ted.  Our welcome committee also included Ted's son Ted, Jr., a budding young photographer who snapped pictures as we greeted everyone.  We exchanged handshakes, hugs, tears and laughter, amazed and relieved to be at our final destination after weeks, some would say, years on this journey westward.  I will never forget that illumined, historical journey of ours:  out of the arms of Germany into the arms of loving relatives a continent away in the United States of America!

Chapter 29

A New World

After the excitement of meeting everybody, Uncle Joe led us to the front of the station and started loading our family's belongings into his and Uncle Ted's car.  We were astounded not only by the large size of the cars, but that both our uncles seemed to own cars of their own. I had only been in a car three times before, but this was by far the most luxurious.  In just a few minutes we arrived at Uncle Joe's house, where again Uncle Ted's son was taking pictures of us, this time with a movie camera. We relished this celebrity moment on the porch at Uncle Joe's. 

Uncle Joe and Aunt Marie's house was huge and beautiful. Its roughly 2500 square feet were average for the area, but equated to a mansion by our standards. Nestled on a quiet, tree-lined street, the home had a living room, a dining room, a sitting room, 3 bedrooms, a kitchen, a sun porch, a tile bathroom with tub, and a basement.  We were amazed as we toured each room, hardly believing there could be so much space in a single home.

That evening Aunt Marie prepared a scrumptious meal for all of us, etched in my memory as one of the biggest and best meals I have ever eaten.  We talked and laughed, fighting fatigue to absorb every moment of that first night in our new homeland. When bedtime came, we nestled into their large, comfortable beds.  Despite the seeming luxury, sleep did not come quickly that first night, for we were just too excited by all the newness (and probably a little jet-lagged)! 

The following day, a newspaper reporter from the Grand Rapids Press came to the house to talk to the immigrant family of seven that had just arrived in town.  He talked to all of us while Uncle Joe interpreted, then he took a picture of our family.  The next day a long article appeared in the Grand Rapids Press profiling our family and our long journey from Germany to Michigan.     

Ryner's Immigrant Story - Excerpt Part 1

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Today marks 60 years since my father's family stepped onto American soil for the first time.  A few years ago, I worked with my Dad to record his memoirs.   I may have posted a few excerpts before this one, but I wanted to share more extensive piece. Mostly for my family to read and remember.  

Dateline: 1953

...The SS United States was berthed in a huge dock in Bremerhaven.  We arrived several hours before departure with all of our remaining possessions packed tightly into six suitcases. I remember rounding a corner in that old port city and catching a glimpse of the huge ship.  Its sheer size and presence took my breath away.  We were all in awe, for no ship had ever looked sleeker or more inviting to a family of seven than this SS United States looked to us.  Our last hours as a family in our German homeland were spent in a local restaurant for a light meal, an interesting last respite for me since I'd only been to a restaurant a few times in my life.  To satiate our palates before the rocky voyage, Dad introduced us to a special treat there, a new drink we had never tasted before called Coca- Cola.  What a wonderful, ironic sendoff before the bells rung to call us aboard to our future.

Chapter 27

A Rocky Crossing

The hustle and bustle of the dock was Hollywood-like.  Our tickets were checked, paperwork stamped, visas inspected, and luggage loaded away.  Our excited family then joined the throng of passengers climbing up the long gangplanks. Friendly stewards dressed in black tuxedoes and white ties greeted the passengers as we boarded, leading everyone to their cabins.  All seven of our family members fit snugly into two cabins outfitted with bunk beds.  Even though they were the cheapest quarters on the ship, and Dad had warned us they would be small, they still looked great to us!  Our family's passage and those two cabins, nine floors below the ship's decks, cost $1,600  (equivalent to about $12,000 at today's rates.)  Every penny paid for those tickets came from Uncle Joe and Aunt Marie in Grand Rapids.  Dad vowed that that someday we would repay it all. 

Once settled in our cabins, we heard an announcement in several languages that departure was imminent.  We rushed back upstairs to find a place along one of the railings, nudging ahead to get a front row seat for this historic family event.  Soon the ship's horns bellowed, ringing through my entire frame, heralding our departure.  The passengers all waved with gusto to throngs of people below who had come to see off loved ones, some for just a time, others for forever.   I remember Mother and Dad's broad smiles and misty, joyful eyes as the harbor shrunk into the horizon.

Our first stop after departure from Bremerhaven was the port of LeHavre, France where the ship took on more passengers.  The next and final stop before entering the Atlantic Ocean was Southampton, the huge seaport on the southern coast of England.  At each stop, passengers flocked to the decks to see the landscape.  We also marveled at the size of our vessel and its modern sleekness when compared to other ships in the harbors.  Early on the third day of our voyage, England's green coast slowly disappeared behind us and we turned northwest toward the open seas of the Atlantic Ocean. 

As the ship set off into the expanse of the sea, we settled in enjoying the delights of life on board.  The food was absolutely heavenly. We received meal service three, and sometimes four times a day.  Such indulgence was just what we needed after all the post war years of food shortages and constant skimping.  And the best part was that Mother didn't have to cook any of it, she could just enjoy being served for once.  Our fate seemed too good to be true: this family of poor refugees seated at a big round table covered with a fine linen table cloth, sitting in comfortable chairs on expensive carpeting.  Smiling, efficient angels stood by in this gilded heaven, waiting to serve us all the good food we could eat!  The table steward would even give me second portions of dessert if I so desired. Besides eating great food, there were plenty of other activities to enjoy, like billiards, ping-pong tables, shuffle boards, lounges with live music, and on and on.  As passengers in the "cheap seats," we could only wonder what first and second-class passengers might be enjoying! It seemed that nothing could dampen our joy.

On our second day in the Atlantic, the wonderful, sun-kissed weather we had enjoyed began to change.  The sky turned dark and ominous and soon the giant ship began to move up and down in a precarious manner.  Dad assured us that all was normal, telling us that the oceans may roil up a bit, but everything would be fine.  His assuring words made us feel better because we knew he had been at sea often, and surely had endured worse than this.  However, no sooner had Dad calmed us with his words than the storm's turmoil grew.  With alarming speed, the weather worsened as dusk fell.  A few short hours later the ship was rising and falling with incredible force, digging its bow so deep into the dark, heavy seas that the triple screws propelling the ship in the stern would come clear out of the water and shake the entire ship.  Soon everyone realized that we were being gripped by a mighty and dangerous Atlantic storm.   Herman, Bernie and I, who had been walking topside, were told to go below.  We took one more look outside before our descent and could see only huge ocean waves all around, boiling to heights nearly as high as our enormous vessel.  It was an awesome, frightening spectacle.  The ship's crew strung ropes along stairs and hallways for passengers to hang onto since attempting to walk up or down stairs was like boarding a county fair ride with constant jostling.  The dining rooms cleared as people ran to their cabins as quickly as possible.  With the constant rocking and rolling, rampant seasickness was unavoidable, and it struck with the same fury as the seas!  With the exception of most of the crew and a handful of passengers like my Dad who had been at sea before, all became very, very sea sick.  I have few memories as miserable as those sixteen or so hours being cooped up in our cabin, all of us expelling every last bit of all the magnificent food we had indulged in to that point.  The cabin stewards would knock on our door offering food and anti-seasickness pills, but nothing helped.  Our insides were losing this battle to the raging Atlantic.  We could only pray that the boat would hold up better. 

Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, the seas began to calm.  What we didn't know at the time was that the SS United States, its passengers and crew had just endured one of the most violent storms ever observed in the Atlantic Ocean.  In fact, that same storm front continued eastward towards Europe, gathering even more strength.  It struck the coasts of England and the Netherlands with awesome fury killing almost 3,000 people and doing incredible property damage to both nations.  The great Atlantic Ocean Storm of early 1953 was one of a kind, and I still marvel that our family went through it.  But it is also unsurprising that my gallant father had yet another sea survival story to tell. 

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For Annie

Today one of my favorite authors was in Atlanta (which is saying something since I"m not exactly a prolific reader...or maybe it doesn't say much since I can count on one hand the authors i "like").  Anne Lamott was in Decatur. Across the street from Corey's apartment. It could have been so easy, so inspiring and cool and spiritual. But alas, life called and left me little margin for enjoying an evening out. We leave tomorrow for thanksgiving in highlands, the kiddoes needed baths, Jeff needed a run, Buckley needed the run. I knew the venue would be jammed and I'm too old and too much a mom to have much tolerance for traffic or large crowds.  All of which, on paper seems a slim excuse for skipping out on the event, but I have more and more excuses these days.  The tension between wanting to live, really live and do shit apart from being a wife, mom, housekeeper (which I'm bullocks at anyway), and the inherent stress that accompanies whatever that "living" is. Bottle prep, shower (I know, right...hassle city..), timing, trying NOT to leave wonderful husband with too much to handle. I'm often weighing the stress versus reward. Plotting little pro/con charts in my head. Too often (maybe?) I fall back to the easy, the home route, the sweatpants option.  

I hope some of it, a shred at least, is because I love my family desperately. Love them enough that another blasted evening of chasing a naked near-three-year old around to wrangle her pajamas on, wrapping up a fussy baby who may or may not sleep more than 3 hrs., baths, cleanup, all that is enough to keep me here, or at least not want Jeff to suffer it alone.

So with all that said, I write now for them, and for her, for Ms Lamott whose books have inspired me to be a better writer, a more open person, a better parent and have made me laugh, and even cry.  If I couldn't go see her tonight, she'd want me to write once all the Life was worked out and done for the night.  She'd not want me to watch Monday Night Football or No Reservations (though maybe that because something tells me she and Bourdain are sassy kindred spirits), but she'd say: butt in chair. write something.  

Right now the only story I really know how to tell is my own.  I can tell you about my baby boy's chubby cheeks. How everyone, I mean EVERYONE comments on them and how edible they are and pinchable and all sorts of other horrible action words that shouldn't be done with babyflesh. But I grin and nod. And when I grin they probably realize where those chubsters came from.  Maybe I seem nonplussed by the showers of affection because I secretly fear for him looking in future mirrors, wishing he didn't have chubby cheeks, just like I did when I was younger (okay, and sometimes now).  Using my veiny hands to stretch back and up the flesh around my mouth to just see, for an instant what it would be like to have visible cheekbones and an oval face.

But he is a he, and chances are he won't gaze in mirrors obsessively like have have, and its likely that those adorable cheeks, and all the other rolly parts of him will evaporate into his toddler jeans and he starts moving around in this world and I'll long for all those rolls again.  

He says "mah, mah, mah." Yep. No hint of "dada" but when he's sad he says "mah!"  Melts me.  He laughs with this breathing-in cackle and gummy smile that is out of this world.  Like when I accidentally learned that he is really ticklish under his arms the other night while changing him.  His mouth went agape and he breathed in this deep cackle and sigh and I smiled so big my (big) cheeks hurt.

I haven't had a moment when I wanted to throw him out of window yet.  I'm sure it's coming, or maybe just my adorable little female child will have that kind of rage-inducing effect on me.  Maybe I'm just okay with a cranky babe once in a while. I was not with her.  Okay, I've had frustrating times with him when the crying seems inexplicable, and So. Damn. Loud. Does he know its 2 am, I JUST woke up and I REALLY am trying to get you milk asap.  That's frustrating. And its frustrating that he's reverted from those nice long sleeps he had as a newborn, snuggled next to our bed. He'd hit a 7 hr clip here and there. Not so anymore. We average about 4.5 at night. He goes down about 8.30, which is nicely in rhythm with Hadley but also means if I don't also go to bed at 8.30 then I'm not getting much consecutive sleep.



One day, I have to remember, one day I will sleep for more than 4 hours at a time. And I'll feel like superwoman. I'll feel like I could bathe babies, pack for 5 days away, write, make dinner, do laundry, clean house AND go see my favorite author all in one day. But for now, I have to settle for just a few of those.  And tonight, I missed Annie, and my house is a mess, but by God, I'm writing.

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Silencio

We have a small repetoire of favorite Wittgens-family stories.  You know one of those stories that get's told at the dinner table at every third holiday dinner and several times in between. And when it's told, the details are fuzzier, yet somehow more grandiose.

It goes like this:  my Dad rented a house for us for a week one summer on the Yucatan coast of Mexico. I was still in highschool, my sister brought along her boyfriend who-would-become husband.  The town of Akumal was small and charming and about an hour south of Cancun.  The house was delightful in its concrete-block, Mexican riviera style grandeur.   Blue waters lapped on rocks, just a short walk from the door, a hammock spread under a palm tree, a blender, fresh seafood.  It was a fantastic vacation. 

One night, a couple houses down from our cozy cul-de-sac, a raucous party ensued.  In truth, I don't remember how raucous, in fact, I may have been zonked from sun exposure and swimming well before the rest of my family so not fully cognizant of the loud rowdiness.  According to lore, there was loud music playing, beer bottles crashing about, people shouting and yelling. Standard party fare that gets more embellished every year.  At some point we'll call "in the middle of the night" - whether it was 11pm or 2:30 am, we'll never know, but the revelry was late enough to draw the ire of my father, who had hoped for a peaceful vacation.  He proceeded out onto our deck and yelled, somewhat unconvincingly apparently, "quiet down!"  No quieting happened.  The party partied on.  A bit later, Dad had had enough and went back to the deck yelling at the top of his lungs "SILENCIO!!" (because perhaps these latinos needed to hear his stern command in what he guessed was their mother-tongue.)  

His wish was granted, but only momentarily.  The revelers stopped, and I can only imagine as they looked up from their Tequila shots and Norteno music.  Then the brief silencio was broken with a chorus of raucous laughter, and a series of mocking "silencio" replies. 

We recount the story with the same festive mood as those party-goers must have enjoyed, however on that night, I imagine my Dad was miffed.  In fact as the story goes, he may have even feared for the tires on our rental-car or the safety of our rented property after such an affront to the partiers.


I recount that story because I feel as my Dad did that night.  Only the racket I'm enduring here on this OTHERWISE peaceful afternoon is of my own choosing, I suppose.  We're getting a new roof, and a new screen porch and for days now the hammering, hacking, sawing, and occasional Spanish commands have been my background music. Every hard knock shakes the house just a little and I marvel how my daughter is sleeping through this.  I just want peace, silence, meditative rest. Space to pray in earnest for my friends in deep need. And yet, all I want to do is scream "SILENCIO!"  Doubtless mis amigos from Mexico up on the roof would find it entertaining as those partiers in Akumal, Yucatan. 

But for now, I'm forced to absorb the sounds and be thankful that at least my dog, and my daughter are at rest. 

Well, scratch that. Now its just the dog at rest.

A Thursday Reading

Perhaps as a sign of age, or more distinctly because I am a parent, I find myself governed too often by fear.  From the simple: what if I spent too much money on this thing and it won't yield its value? or What if this meal I'm bringing a friend turns out gross and they think less of me?  To the more serious ones that keep me up lately:  What if Jeff died in a motorcycle wreck (as did the husband of a high school acquaintance this week)?  What if Hadley was abducted like those kids I've read about in the news? 

And my mind paces back and forth between to-do lists and fears and irrational things on which to dwell while lying in bed at midnight. And suddenly it's 1am and I can find only some peace in silly iPhone games or reading other people's blog posts. 

That was last night for me, and now this morning, earth seems new a pleasantly more hopeful in the new light. 

I read from Thomas Merton's A Book of Hours this morning and found these Thursday passages helpful:

READING:
To say that I am made in the image of God is to say that love is the reason for my existence, for God is love. Love is my true identity. Selflessness is my true self. Love is my true character. Love is my name.

If, therefore, I do anything or think anything or say anything or know anything that is not purely for the love of God, it cannot give me peace, or rest, or fulfillment, or joy. To find love I must enter into the sanctuary where it is hidden, which is the mystery of God. 

RESPONSORY:
O great God, Father of all things, Whose infinite light is darkness to me, Whose immensity is to me as the void, You have called me forth out of yourself because You love me in Yourself, and I am a transient expression of Your inexhaustible and eternal reality.  I could not know You, I would be lost in this darkness, I would fall away from You into this void, if You did not hold me to Yourself in the Heart of Your only begotten Son. 


Perfect Love drives out fear.

Blessed are the Dudes

There was  a good bit of chatter on the interwebs today discussing a recent talk by the popular pastor / author / speaker John Piper.  Piper, in his talk, spoke about Christianity as truly masculine, arguing that we should work to maintain this.  He pointed to things like Bibilical language portraying God as King (not Queen), Jesus as son (not daughter), that Old-testament priests were all men, and that Christ's apostles were men.  

(Notes: I own John Piper books, he says some good things. I'm married to a man, I like him.  I do manly things like play sports, watch ESPN, drink beer and burp aloud -mostly b/c I'm pregnant right now - so I'm not anti-man.  Many thanks to Rachel Held Evans for inviting responses and curating another good discussion.)



Okay, so to begin with, Piper's arguments seem sorely ignorant in cultural understanding and theology, but other smarter people can address the original Hebrew and Greek Scripture meanings, cultural contexts etc.  And others can point more accurately to scriptures highlighting women champions of the Bible (for all those smart-people responses, keep an eye on Evans' blog or Twitter feed.)  But I feel led to address Pipers point - that Christianity is Masculine.  

It does seem an age marked by Eldridge's Wild at Heart, Driscoll and his anti-effette rants, and even Promise Keepers, which all, in some part, seem bent on reclaiming the manliness of being Christian.  “Yeah dude, you can be an awesome Bible-believing Man of God, and go bow-hunting and zip-lining and brew your own beer. But hey, love your wife, too."  Some of this dude-centric work is important. Statistics show that women are larger percentage of church attendees than men.  And I know from experience that it is often women working behind the scenes (because that’s often where they are relegated) to ensure the smooth-running of many a congregation.  Yes, men need to step up:  too many kids today have absent fathers, or Dads who are just jerks.  Christian guys still do drugs, hire under-age prostitutes and have porn addictions.  Yes, men need Jesus and the community of church.  But not to reclaim their rightful headship, but just because they need it, like we women do.

Yesterday I was listening to an Orthodox podcast about Holy Week (note: it’s called Our Life In Christ. Only the archives are available online, but it’s great.  I’m not Orthodox, just an interested voyeur. ) The podcast highlighted one of the Orthodox services of Holy Week that focuses on the woman who annointed Jesus with expensive perfume, and washed his feet with her tears and hair.  In the services and readings, this beautiful passage is juxtaposed with Judas’ betrayal.  He who had been one of Jesus’ closest friends, yet poured nothing out at the feet of Christ, but sought his own gain at Jesus’ expense.  Is it the man in this story who exemplifies the spirit of worship or the woman?  (And to Pipers point that Christ’s appointed disciples were men, was is they who stood by in the vital hours before and after Christ’s death and resurrection?  They betrayed, doubted, and ran.  And the risen Christ’s first revelation was to whom?  A woman.)   But I digress, and my snarky rhetorical questions are a good segue to what the progam hosts explain as the point of the services.  Highlighting these two stories during Holy Week is not to give Judas a bad rap, but to illumine the participant to the fact that the capacity to act as either character lives in each of us.  We can be the annointing woman in one breath, and Judas in the next.  God have mercy.  



Spaghetti Western

 
The notion of manly Christianity just seems so Western, so Davey Crockett American.  I just can’t imagine it has always been thus.  Again to the Orthodox Holy Week, which are probably the oldest recorded services in Christendom, miraculously consistent with Christianity’s earliest days. And here we see great honor bestowed on a woman, a woman who teaches us how to worship.   And the veneration of women does not stop there.  Several of the feast days that follow Easter are dedicated to women.  And, of course, the Protestant-dreaded Marian doctrines of Catholic and Orthodox faiths were of huge importance in the life of the ancient church, as they are today.  

Has Western, Protestant Christianity REALLY gotten back to the true manly meaning of Christianity by wiping itself clean of the Mother of God, highly honored from the earliest breaths of our Faith?  A Faith that was so entirely counter-cultural as to list Christ’s geneology through his female ancestors in one Gospel.  So as to say there is no male or female in Christ, that all are welcome.  So as to say we should come to Jesus as Children, who at the time were seen more as nuisances than Facebook photo ops. 

This peculiar, liberating, counter-cultural, enduring thing that I’m a part of, by the Grace of God, mustn’t be masculine or feminine.  It is Trinitarian, cosmically relational, a Mother Hen and a scrawny shepherd.  A caring Father and weeping Mother.  It is I AM.  

There seems so much more to say than this on the subject.  Maybe I’ll follow up with some more later.

The Greatest

Happy 70th Birthday to Muhammed Ali.  Here's an excerpt from from a memoir project I've been working on with my Dad.  Interestingly, he's had several encounters with Mr Clay / Ali.


....On one such business trip, my manager and I were traveling in first class and our seats happened to be right behind a very familiar face - the great boxer Muhammad Ali.  I'd always assumed that most celebrities fly first class to be left alone.  However, only a few minutes after we were airborne, "The Greatest" turned around and asked us if we wanted to hear some of his poems - a hilarious question from a guy that was known to everyone!  Here was the former heavyweight champion on his way to recapturing his title and suddenly was kneeling on his seat to face us, reciting his poetry.  He entertained us for a long time with all kinds of other crazy stuff - more poems, predictions of greatness to come, and exactly how he was going to knock out his opponents to regain his heavyweight crown.  Eventually, he moved to the tourist class behind us where he did the same thing for the passengers there. 

Interestingly, this was not my first run-in with the boxer.  A few years earlier, when he was not yet champion and still went by Cassius Clay, I had seen his big bus outside a restaurant/bar in Sacramento.  Naturally, I wanted to see him, and needed to make a visit to the restroom anyway.  Once inside the restaurant, I did not see any sign of him and assumed he had left.  But on the way into the men's room I literally crashed into him as he was leaving.  He was huge and all muscle, and knocked the wind out of me.  He gently apologized for the inadvertent collision and went back to entertaining the bar patrons. 

I was to see Ali one more time, many years past his boxing prime. He had been secretly chosen to be the torch bearer to light the Olympic flame at the Opening Ceremony of the Olympic Games of 1996 in Atlanta.  He stood just thirty feet from our section and my wife, Evelyn and I watched as this now weakened and ill athlete struggled to control his shaking hands to lift the torch that would light the massive Olympic flame.  The occasion was so sad, but also strangely encouraging and undoubtedly unforgettable for the eighty-thousand people there to witness it, along with millions watching around the globe.  

A Collapse and a Clumsy Stumble

I stayed up last night watching my Braves as I have a hundred times before.  I was tense, but perhaps not as tense as I may have been in years past, or in different circumstances.  See, when a team like the Braves goes into a win-or-go-home game like last nights ended up being, but they have zero momentum, the game loses it's edge.  Given the way they have played in the last month, I had little confidence that even should the Braves advance past the best team in baseball with a fluke win, that they'd have anything left in the tank to battle St. Louis.  Once the game went extra innings, I began to think maybe it would just be better to end the suffering now rather than prolong the struggle of September. My wish was granted.  The game shaped up to be so emblematic of the last part of this year's Braves season: little offense with runners in scoring position, a key error here, too many walks there, a blown save, a squib hit by the other team and suddenly the season was over. 

I was sad for Atlanta, especially after such a close, competitive game.  My small glimmers of hope that they could get back into an upswing just in time just didn't materialize.  The old guys looked old (that's you, Chipper), the young guys looked tired and nervous (that's you Venters and Kimbrell).  They just had nothing left in the emotional or physical tank,  so they stumbled clumsily out of the playoffs.  Meanwhile the team with the hot hand did their job with an exclamation point - big run total, complete game shutout from Carpenter. 

At the close of the Braves game, I quickly turned to the other baseball, needing distraction.  And thank God I did.  I got to witness the other parts of what ESPN's Tim Kurkjian called one of the greatest nights of baseball he can remember.  The Rays stormed back, the BoSox looked sure to close it out.  So eerily similar though has their track with the Braves been this September, one had to wonder if their 3-2 lead...like Atlanta's...wasn't quite as secure as Papelbon's steely gaze.  And indeed, it was not.  And perhaps their 9th inning debacle was worse than the Braves' for they had 2 outs, and gave up both the tying, and winning run.  Not to mention that they gave them up to a team that, unlike the Phillies,  haven't seen the playoffs in years. 

I posted on Facebook when the O's tied the game. 
sorry Sox nation...but your misery is kinda making me feel better. kinda

At the time, I referred only to surrendering the tying run, and to their dismal September.  I had no idea that about 3 minutes later the O's would score the winner, then a few minutes after that, the Ray's would score their winner.  I had no idea the true misery that Boston would suffer within minutes.  But to be honest, as a sad Braves fan, it helped lift my spirits.   Like the same way that people with sad, hurt-filled lives watch sad, hurt-filled reality television because it makes their lot seem not quite so crazy.  Or how I feel when I watch Hoarders.  "Oh, well my house isn't THAT messy."

So, thank you Boston, for giving Braves fans the space to say, "Oh, well at least our team isn't THAT shameful."

Sure, my Bravos lost a big playoff lead, but with half the payroll of the Sox, with 2 starting pitchers injured for much of the season, other solid players nagged by injury, a young team and a new manager.  I will not write them off, just like I haven't all the previous years of enduring dissapointing post-season losses, or like I never did after the 80's Braves were laughable in their awfulness.  I still watched and cheered.  And I will still look forward to those four beautiful words that signal the advent of Spring Training.  "Pitchers and catchers report." It's not so very far away. 

In the meantime, Go Phils (that's for Jeff) and Go Tigers (that's for my Michigan family...and all of Detroit really).