All posts by monica leigh sprouse

 
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Finding the passion


Yesterday as I turned in my library books, I asked the library tech whether or not she had voted in the Super Tuesday primaries. "Nah," she answered, "I never vote." Climbing onto my bandstand, I reminded her that every vote counts. "So, who did you vote for?" she replied. Caught off guard and momentarily silenced, another library tech joked, "Oh, Kathy, didn’t your mother tell you that there are three things that you don’t talk about: politics, religion, and money?" The three of us laughed and I quietly replied, "I voted for Barack Obama."

An ardent, early supporter of Dennis Kucinich, I had found myself in the last few weeks between the proverbial rock and a hard place. Looking over my New Jersey sample ballot with my teenager, he noticed that Dennis was still listed, "Hey Mom, you can still vote for Dennis if you want," he pointed out, triumphant that he had found a solution. "Yeah, I guess I could, Sam. Only Dennis has dropped out, so I would be wasting my vote." "Aw, go for Barack, Mom. He’s okay," Sam responds, shedding his support for Dennis like dead skin. I’m finding it a bit more difficult to switch my allegiance. I do all the "right" things, I review the contenders’ websites, continue to watch the debates, make comparisons, and yet, I just can’t find the passion.

As more and more celebrities, lawmakers, and just plain folks, join in song for one candidate or the other, I begin to wonder if something is wrong with me. After all I remember being fired up over Clinton (Bill, that is). I remember the overseas phone calls to my family pleading with them to at least listen to Bill. I remember watching the dates so that I could make sure that I received my absentee ballot, the peace of election night, feeling secure that a wise choice had been made. Through the years I always managed to feel passionate about a candidate that captured the primaries. Heck, I even convinced my mom, a staunch Republican, to drop Bush and join in the Kerry campaign. I do admit, however, that my passion for Kerry would be more accurately tallied as passion against Bush.

I study the websites again, jotting notes on who supports what and how that fits into my way of thinking. Time and time again, Obama narrowly beats out Clinton. I look at the videos from YouTube and hear voices in sync, shouting out the HOPE that Obama brings into their lives. I complain to my husband, "I just don’t get it. I like Obama, I believe in what he says, I believe that he is the better candidate. I trust him. His policies are ones that I support." So why do I feel like he is the man that everyone tells you is the one to marry, but you just can’t see it?

I stand in the voting booth, wavering over the two names. I press the space next to Obama’s name and continue to stand. There is no line behind me, so I feel no pressure to hit the "cast vote" button. I hear my husband joking with the voting official. After twenty years, he is the man I trust, the one person whose decisions I support, a man I believe in. The man I love. I don’t need passion to tell me which direction to choose. It is enough to simply believe.

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Mi casa, su casa, how about no casa?


This morning a small article tucked into the corner of The Christian Science Monitor caught my eye. Los Angeles, with 48,000 homeless people will allow overnight sidewalk sleeping as long as access to driveways and doorways is not inhibited.

Nestled underneath this grim fact is a picture of Senator Barack Obama grooving with the Frederick Douglass High School band during a Largo, Maryland campaign stop. Somehow I just can’t wrap my brain around the idea that here we are in 2007, another presidential race gearing up, and the fundamental problems of our country seem to remain the same.

Setting the paper aside, I have visions of people lying on the sidewalks of Los Angeles, head to foot, leaving gaps for the orderly exit of cars and people. Will they be allowed to use blankets? What about air matresses and pillows? Pedestrians of course will have to navigate a bit more carefully, stepping around people and belongings. From what I remember of Los Angeles, however, that shouldn’t be too much of an issue, since it seems that most everyone drives rather than walks.  I’m glad that the city of Los Angeles is letting homeless individuals sleep on the sidewalks. Everyone has to sleep after all.

I remember 20-odd years ago, I worked at a Santa Barbara hospital in the records department and routinely read the dictation notes forwarded by the hospital’s physicians. One day I came across an admittance note that listed the patient’s address as under the fig tree. Intrigued, I asked around, learning that there was one fig tree in particular under which many of the local homeless sought shelter. At that time, homeless individuals were not allowed to sleep overnight on the beaches and the fig tree had become a sort of place of refuge. While this was one of my first encounters with the idea of homelessness, it has not been my last.

Living in Las Vegas a few years ago, my son and I decided to visit the original Las Vegas settlement. As we rounded the corner to enter the homestead, my son stopped, pointed at the ground and said with trepidation, "Is he dead, mommy?" Thinking that he meant an animal, I looked around to see the creature he was referring to. Seeing nothing, I replied, "Is what dead?" Grabbing my arm, Adam gestured toward a large gray mass, "Him, mommy, that man." Looking in the direction of my arm, I saw a man, covered in gray. Gray clothes, gray hair, gray bags. Hearing our voices, the man stirred, allowing me to answer "No" as I quickly guided my son toward the homestead entrance.

Home, in early Las Vegas was not much. A wooden shelter to provide protection from the heat, it’s a journey back in time, that I have no desire to take. Yet for at least one man, it would be an offer of shade.

I remember earlier in this presidency a prideful boast that more Americans than ever were now homeowners. Well, not exactly owners, since most Americans purchase homes with the assistance of loans. On the opposite page, one reality of home ownership makes its mark, as the increase in U.S. home foreclosures reminds me that escalating home sale prices is why I still rent.

Recently my son and I toured an open house. The home is immaculate and comes with both a finished basement and an outdoor above-ground hot tub. The house was custom built in 1977 and has been well maintained by the original owners. Researching the area, I estimate that the owners paid about $70,000-$75,000 for the home originally. The most recent appraisal for tax purposes set the house at $259,000. A nice profit on a 30-year investment. So what are the owners asking for this home? $424,000. More than $150,000 over appraisal and close to $350,000 more than they paid for it. Now, I will say that this house has been on the market for at least six months and that particular weekend the owners lowered the price to $399,000. When I drove past the home the following weekend, I wasn’t surprised to see the "For Sale" sign still posted. The increase in home foreclosures has pretty much dried up the chance for a prospective buyer to acquire these super mortgages.

Reading the papers, my husband and I would always ask each other how people do it. How can someone afford a $300,000 home? Well now we know, some can’t.

While the city of Los Angeles offers up its sidewalks, I look around and wonder why there are no better deals.

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Industry strong-arms breastfeeding campaign


This is a story about two boys, brothers, born of the same mother, the same father, in the same city, the same hospital, and according to their father, the same bed. These brothers share a love for roughhousing with each other and any comers. You can find them challenging each other in kickball and arguing over which restaurant to share a meal or who can talk the loudest. Together they have moments of mutual satisfaction laced with more than just a few conflicts.

One brother amazed his pediatrician when at eight months he showed up in his office, an overwhelmed mom and dad at his side. "What seems to be the problem?" the standard line given to parents who do not have a clue. "Well, he has been crying all morning, we’ve tried everything, and don’t know what is wrong." "Well, how does he act when he isn’t feeling well?" replies the pediatrician, with a what-a-bunch-of-morons nod of his head. Mom glances at dad, who glances right back. "You mean sick? He’s never been sick." Now the doctor looks up, interest peeked. A never-been-ill eight-month-old? Who knew such a child existed? First-time parents, we thought baby Tylenol was for teething.

The second time around, we learned that weeks-old babies could develop ear infections, that visits to the doctor could become routine, that asthma is a serious thing. Two brothers, one so healthy he dares fate to cast an illness his way, the other tied to nebulizers, graduating to inhalers, plans filed with the nurse’s office, medicine and its accompaniments always kept on hand. Two boys, one healthy, one less so, one breathing clearly, one listening for that little rattle, one confident in his health, one anxious that his medicine might be left behind. One breastfeed, one not.

While health professionals have promoted the benefits of breastfeeding for a number of years, the actual number of women who choose to breastfeed has declined. Common sense would suggest that, as women become aware of the benefits of breastfeeding, at least some increase would emerge. So why the decline?

The Washington Post National Weekly Edition reports on one possibility, government strongarmed by industry. According to their investigation, the infant formula industry hired guns — Clayton Yeutter, agriculture secretary under George H.W. Bush and Joseph Levitt, former director of the Food and Drug Administrations’s Center for Food Safety and Nutrition, which regulates, you guessed it, infant formula — to protect their interests when faced with new, viable research supporting breastfeeding.

As the health and science community completed research indicating that non-breastfeed babies are up to 250 percent more likely to suffer respiratory diseases, the Federal Office on Woman’s Health geared up for a hardhitting ad campaign, featuring a baby bottle nipple attached to the end of an asthmatic inhaler as well as a syringe-topped baby bottle. Images designed to wake up moms to the possible consequences of choosing formula over breast. The promotion of consequences versus benefits is not new to government advertising — think Ad Council campaigns on drunk driving — yet it is an approach, when taken with breast versus bottle feeding, that leaves behind the idea that both are equally healthy and simply a lifestyle choice.

In a "Dear Tommy" letter to former HSS secretary Thompson, Yeutter used mom’s guilt to promote the toning down of the proposed ad campaign. After all, he asked, "Does the U.S. government really want to engage in an ad campaign that will magnify that guilt?" Well, while I can’t speak for all of the moms out there who have chosen to use formula over breastmilk, I can tell you what I think. Yes, I feel guilty that I didn’t endure the painful tearing of my nipples (onionskin comes to mind) when my youngest had difficulty latching. Yes, I feel guilty that I let the fact that I wanted to return to work influence my decision to bottle feed. Yes, I am guilty of putting my own needs over my child’s. I am reminded of that choice every day when I open the kitchen cabinet, the glove compartment of my car, the upstairs closet, and bits of my son’s asthmatic life appear.

I am also frustrated with a government that would promote immediate dollars over the health of its children. Of course encouraging moms to breastfeed means not only damaging the infant formula industry, it means supporting moms in the workplace. It could mean longer paid (what a concept) maternity leave, on-site childcare, or alternative workplace locations. Like a line of tipped dominoes, a hardhitting ad campaign on the consequences of not breastfeeding starts alone, only to knock its universe on its backside.

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The $20,000 question


As a child I remember my father telling me about the summer he worked as a brick layer to earn money for college. As the son of a Holiday Inn hostest, college was tantamount to reaching for the stars. By summer’s end, earnings counted, he realized that he was several hundred dollars short of the tuition fee. Back in those days, there were no such things as a Pell grant or guaranteed student loans; there was, however, something called a GI Bill. Designed for soldiers returning from World War II, the GI Bill allowed lower-income persons the opportunity to get their foot in the corporate door. My father looked over the services and decided a few years in the Air Force would be worth a college degree.

I am reminded of this conversation with my father as I read this week’s Washington Post National Weekly Edition, which discusses the Army’s lastest recruitment incentive. The $20,000 "quick-ship" program, which began in late July, encourages new recruits to report to basic training by the end of September. While Army recruiters are stressing that the bonus is the last thing they discuss with potential enlistees, $20,000 on the table is no small sum.

Part of the military family since birth, yes, my father did graduate from college only to find that the Air Force was the corporate he was looking for, I wonder if these individuals really know what that $20,000 buys them. Opportunities to travel the world, free healthcare, money for education, a steady paycheck, and the privilege of serving their country during a time of war is the typical spiel that crosses one’s mind when discussing the benefits of military service. 

Although the war against terrorism has underscored the Army’s true purpose, I still sense a fascination among civilians regarding the “clubbishness” of the military. One only has to tune into Lifetime’s Army Wives to get Hollywood’s version of the rank and file. While some of it rings true, the episode with the stepfather chasing his stepsons around the pool during retreat brings a smile to the lips; it is, as is most of television, a caricature of the reality it represents. Beyond the 12-plus hours a day, the less-than-ideal working conditions, possible monotony, all of which can be said of any number of jobs, lies the possibility of another world: one that may include the chance to lead others, find a passion, and finally move into another social strata. Opportunities aside, the military also offers the chance to miss your child’s birth, to forego lending your sibling a helping hand, or the responsibility of reassuring a child that her father will do everything to keep himself safe, knowing that the father is a POW somewhere in Iraq.

So what’s the difference between my father’s free college education and a 20,000 recruitment bonus? Is it the idea that a college education points towards the future, whereas $20,000 brings to mind bills labeled past due, flatscreen TVs, and, if one plays her cards right, maybe a new car? I realize in a world overwhelmed with things, the temptation to own is reaching epidemic heights. Using material wealth to define one’s self is nothing new; after all, a lot of those GIs used their college diplomas to move solidly into white-collar America. I suppose what makes the $20,000 bonus so crass is that a war is going on, one that is filling caskets, occupying hospital beds, and ending relationships. Yes, the military life has been good to me. My children have been to 33 states at last count, I have been able to take a break from my career to care for my child’s special needs, the free healthcare has been an absolute blessing, and yet, I just can’t get the sight of $20,000 and displaced limbs out of my mind.  

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Mirror, mirror…


 

This afternoon my two sons and I saw the newly released Fantastic Four. At the risk of sounding plebian, I found that I enjoyed the movie, which had a bit more of a plot than its original. Another surprise was my unexpected fascination with the actress, Jessica Alba. There are some films and some actors that absolutely captivate me. Meryl Streep immediately comes to mind. Her beauty, voice, and inner motivation make her compelling to watch. Jessica Alba is no Meryl. What I found so striking about her was her unrealness. About five minutes into the movie, I turned to my ten-year-old and asked, "Does she look normal to you?" I must admit, his "Huh?" and look of "What are you talking about?" left me a bit concerned. For in today's world, Jessica looked anything but normal. Her blue eyes with visible contact lenses, her blonde hair bleached the color of straw, her endowed breasts perched on top of an extremely slender body all made Barbie look almost human. Yet to my ten-year-old, her appearance left no mark on the landscape, her face just another face in the crowd.

Later I asked my twelve-year-old what he thought about Jessica's appearance. "She looked strange," Sam replied. "How so?" I asked. "Her face wasn't right." We discussed this for a bit and came to the agreement that her eyes in particular kind of freaked us both out. Now I admit, growing up Hispanic in a white neighborhood, I truly envied my blue-eyed, blonde-haired cousins and, yes, I was tempted to try colored contacts when they first arrived. Truth be told, it was more likely my adverse reaction to contact lenses in general than any deeply-held feminist beliefs that kept my brown eyes brown. What saddens me is how little has changed in the last twenty years. It seems that even with all the positive female role models a young woman can choose from, the strong pull to be blonde and blue-eyed remains. I suppose part of it is the fascination with trying something new, becoming a different and maybe slightly better version of yourself. All pontifications aside, what will it take for us to be satisfied with ourselves? Can such a world even exist? After all, it is that human drive within us all that has allowed us to touch the moon, to unravel the mysteries of our bodies, to question. If there is a line to cross, we have surely crossed it, for striving towards perfection has erased our blemishes, turning our very selves into one acceptable model.

So, to the Jessicas out there, I say you are who you are: one sperm, one egg, one you. If that isn't cool, I don't know what is. Enough said, my roots are showing.  

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Just another three-day weekend


Summer has arrived, and along with what has become the standard increase in gasoline prices, the greasy scents of funnel cake and hot dogs permeate the air. Today, I am celebrating the "official" start of summer, Memorial Day weekend, at a local water park. The weather is perfect — mid 80s, low humidity with a gentle breeze. From the look of the small crowd, it appears that the traffic person on the local news was correct in his prediction that most folks would be hitting the beaches instead.

Thinking about the crowds that have headed towards the Jersey Shore reminds me of another beach, one named Omaha. Why a landlocked midwestern city was selected as the code name of one of the five landing points during the Normandy invasion of World War II was something never discussed in my American history classes. As a matter of fact, what little I know about the United States' most expensive and possibly most supported war was learned from my father or on after-school specials.

It was from television that I learned about the internment of U.S.-born Japanese Americans in response to Pearl Harbor and America's formal entrance into the war. I can still feel the shock that assaulted my childish senses when I realized that my beloved country was capable of such an act. This betrayal was further intensified when taken in the context of the unity presented during the war. My father often spoke of the rationing, how children saved every bit of scrap metal they could find. Our recycling efforts now must seem so, well, tame by comparison. That is why a headline like "War Costs Money. Why Can't Politicians Say So?" in last week's Washington Post's Weekly Edition reminds me once again of how far from the reality of war that most of us reside.

While we could lay the blame on a president and political leaders who have chosen to pay for a war without raising taxes or requiring Americans to tighten the purse strings in other ways, the bottom line is that as a whole we have found it easier to follow the leader rather than strike out on our own. Common sense tells us that eventually we will have to pay for a war financed through loans. A huge deficit stares us full in the face and yet the party continues.

There was a lot I didn't learn in high school or at my parents' knee, such as how to truly participate in the political process, that one voice can indeed make a difference, and why truth is the basis for accountability. I try not to make the same mistakes with my own children. Errands are run based on location to avoid duplicate journeys, replacing a broken washer becomes a lesson on energy efficiency, walking is strongly encouraged. So when my son points out the fuel consumption of a Humvee, though hopeful, my heart doesn't race like it used to when my dad told of neighborhood ladies saving sugar coupons to make a birthday cake or the bravery of his uncle, who when separated from his fellow soldiers, endured days of freezing solitude broken only by the German voices that surrounded him. I guess it should be no surprise that sacrifices to support this war are not high on the agenda; after all, for many of us, working for the common good has never been considered as important as honoring the individual.

Here at the water park, the water is warm, the lemonade is fresh, and the sunscreen is plentiful. Another Memorial Day weekend, fun in the sun, the cashiers ringing up the orders. As I watch my two sons frolic in the waves, I remember something else they never taught us in high school — exactly how did the Roman Empire fall? I think a little research is in order.          

  

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To love oneself


Reading the tale of Narcissus, the young man who fell in love with the image of himself, reminds us that human nature has perhaps not evolved as much as we would like to think. In the tale, Narcissus spurning his male suitors sends one over the deep end. The rejected young man, Ameinias, uses the sword given to him by Narcissus to commit suicide. His dying prayer is that one day Narcissus realizes the pain of unrequited love. Being a moral tale, the unfortunate Narcissus looks into a pool of water, becoming enchanted by his own reflection. Sadly for him, a second Narcissus fails to emerge from the pool, leaving Narcissus a victim of his own image.

The recent shootings at Virginia Tech bring the concept of narcissism to the forefront. Time's special report includes an essay supporting the idea that the serial killer's inability to focus on others and strong need to have the world revolve around himself plays a leading role in his evolution as a killer. While narcissism is a serious disorder that is estimated to affect .7 to 1% of the population, there exists the viewpoint that, at least in America, a healthy dose of self-love is not necessarily a bad thing. Child-development experts point out that young children who receive positive input about themselves, as well as opportunities to achieve mastery, learn to value themselves as well as their abilities. So why is it that as our youngsters mature, we fail them by promoting the outer instead of the inner beauty?

May's issue of Seventeen offers readers a chance to win a different pair of shoes each day. The graphic pops off the page, a calendar displaying an Imelda Marcus boutique of shoes. Not to be dismissed, the magazine also includes information on handbags, clothing, makeup, hair bands, jewelry, and perfume. Seventeen, of course, is geared to young women who, by virtue of their stage of development, are highly attuned to their physical appearance. Compare the smiling faces of the Virginia Tech victims, looking like a hallowed version of Hollywood Squares; it is easy to imagine that they, too, were concerned about the face that looked into the camera. Putting your best foot forward is simply the American way. Wanting success and the items that mark us as successful will generally not turn most into narcissists or serial killers. And yet…to the narcissist, other people are simply accessories, a bracelet, a dash of lipstick, a pair of shoes, just a little something to bring attention to the true draw, themselves.

In a society that is filled with opportunities to promote yourself, how do we encourage young people to reflect on the needs of others? Glancing through the headlines, it appears that there is a dearth of role models willing to put themselves second, let alone last. Headlines sell papers — the more outlandish the better — and our demand for the latest dirt will get us that and more. Filled with longing for that something just a bit better, are we blinded from the connection between television shows, magazines, advertisements, and songs that continually remind us that while we are special, just one more something can't hurt. People, things. Things, people. Linked by the common denominator of desire, do we accept responsibility for those who cross the line? As we contribute to the pool of materialism, whose faces are reflected? Cho Seung-Hui gunning down his classmates? Ted Bundy luring his victims? Another beautiful model peddling a pair of shoes? Surrounded by our desires, do we pull back to remember that denial can serve as a reminder that life is about more than ourselves? Things, people, people, things. To the serial killer, it's a world of one size fits all.        

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And the winner is…


 

I smell a rat. Okay, not a rat and I don't actually smell anything. It's more like I have a vision. One in which thousands of eyes are transfixed on televisions, ears hooked up to headphones awaiting the latest dirt to be dished up from this week's celebrity mistake.

Friday's lucky pick, Alec Baldwin, gets to replay his parental faux paux in front of millions of jaded people. Despite his abject apologies, he has found that his loss of control has resulted in temporary suspension of his visitation rights with his daughter.

While leaving a hurtful voice message for your child is immature behavior, I am more interested in why so many of us find the Baldwins' personal pain to be of such interest. It is highly improbable that there is one among us who has not engaged in similarly hurtful behavior. As a mother who is currently caring for her sons alone, my first reaction to the Baldwin incident, was "thank God no one is interested in snooping into my life." Full of relief that no one caught me yelling at my teenager or crying with despair as my ten-year-old threw yet another temper tantrum, I actually took a moment to think about the child involved in this fiasco.

As adults, when a person close to us is criticized, we may not agree with the criticism, and we may even be angered at the messenger. However, we are generally able to separate our own ego from the person being judged. Children, on the other hand, closely identify with those people important in their lives. Parents, especially, occupy hallowed ground within a child's sense of self. Growing up, I remember an incident when a close neighbor mentioned that she felt my father came from poor stock. She went on to say that my father had always been kind to her and that my mother was one of the finest people she knew. I don't know what prompted this woman, who my sister and I considered to be a surrogate grandmother, to share this insight with us. I do remember the shame that I felt as she made the comment. After all, what did that say about me? This man was my father after all. So I ask myself, what is Ireland Baldwin feeling about herself right about now? Does she feel the undeserved shame that I felt so strongly at the suggestion that my father was less than up to snuff? Does she look at herself only to find unworthiness in her reflection?

As all the pundits weigh in on Baldwin's "bad" behavior, be it tsking for the shame of it or showing support by pointing out their own mistakes, I will remember the child who asked for none of this, caught up in our obsessive need for celebrity gossip. In the case of parental foibles, we don't need to look toward Hollywood and Alec Baldwin; a stop in front of the bathroom mirror should suffice.                

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Sticks and stones


 

This morning during breakfast I was reading an article out of The Washington Post National Weekly Edition to my son.  The article, entitled "A Plea to Keep Families Together," discussed the realities faced by children born in the U.S. of illegal immigrants.  As I am prone to do, I shared my opinion with my son, to which he replied, "Why don't you email the president and tell him what you think?" "What a good idea," I answered.  My son, looking quite thoughtful, then said, "Oh, mom, George Bush probably won't like your email, so he might put you in jail; maybe you'd better not send one."  Lucky me, a lesson on the freedom of America just fell into my lap.  "Well, you know sweetie, in America you are free to have your own opinion and say what you think."  The words were barely out of my mouth when images of Don Imus entered my head.

Now I have no interest in Don Imus.  Two weeks ago, I wouldn't have recognized his name, although I think I once saw a picture of him.  I happened to come across his comment about the Rutgers's women's basketball team while I was waiting for my car to be serviced.  The gasp I made caused my older son to look up from his Gameboy wanting to know what I had read.  I slid the paper to him and watched as his eyes widened.  "This is not 1892," he said, "It's 2007, what's wrong with this guy?"  I beamed at my son's response, patted myself for raising a sensitive child, and did not once utter a word about free speech in America.

I can tell you why I didn't stand up for Don Imus; it goes back to my freshman year in college.  I was standing in line for the Rocky Horror Picture Show with my boyfriend.  A man and a woman probably in their mid-forties, about my age now, got into an altercation with a 16-year-old girl.  As the argument became heated, the man suddenly yelled out, "You are nothing but a c–t."  The hairs on my arms stood up and, as my disgust turned to anger, I yelled back, "I can't believe a grown man like you would say that to a young girl.  You offended not only her, you offended me and every other woman here, even your own friend!"  As I moved towards him, my boyfriend grabbed my arm, stepping between myself and the man.  The man opened his mouth to say something, stopped and turned away. I'd like to think my words had something to do with his change in attitude, but it was probably the glare my boyfriend aimed at him that shut him up.

That is why at 44 I find myself at a crossroads.  I'm fed up and disgusted with a culture that allows women to be treated with contempt disguised as art.  I know why I wasn't aware of Don Imus — one listen and I would have changed the station.  So I ask myself, why isn't that enough now?  After all ,no one has to listen to a Don Imus or watch a Mel Gibson.  The thought is if enough people stop listening and watching, the individuals will be minimized, eventually fading into the background.  So is it censure when CBS fires Don Imus?  Is it a response from the American public, fed up with an anything-goes media?  What does freedom of speech really mean? 

For myself, I am going to take a stand.  I cherish my right to have an opinion, to know that I can disagree with others, even the president, and not end up in a cell somewhere. The right to voice an opinion, however, is not a blank check to hurt others.  Calling young women who have just won a victory a derogatory name is not an opinion; it is simply a man trying to put women in their place, someone seeking approval by hurting others.  I want my children to know that those who came before them died for their freedom to make their own choices in the world.  I want my children to know that I will fight to protect the rights that we have been given. Most importantly, I want my children to know that words can hurt and no amount of "sorrys" can take them back.         

               

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Beauty as beast


 

"Whatever is in any way beautiful hath its source of beauty in itself, and is complete in itself; praise forms no part of it. So it is none the worse nor the better for being praised."

—Marcus Aurelius Antoninus, 121-180 A.D.

What but the hope of praise could cause a person to submit herself to the latest cosmetic procedure, the eyelash transplant?  Yes, you read correctly, for about $3,000 per eyelid, you too can have hair removed from the back of your head and sewn onto your eyelids. Originally designed to allow burn or cancer victims to recover their lost lashes, eyelash transplantation has now entered the elective surgery market.  Today Show correspondent Janice Lieberman reports that there has been a 300% increase in its use for cosmetic purposes this year alone. Due to the origins of the hair, transplanted eyelashes require regular trimming and perhaps a bit of dye, as they and you age. In the spirit of beauty, pain is just part of the game.              

In her book, Beauty Junkies: Inside Our $15 Billion Obsession with Cosmetic Surgery, Alex Kuczynski outlines America's worship of the mirror. From women traveling to third-world countries for vacation surgeries to the reality of heavy, sagging skin from massive weight loss, Kuczynski emphasizes what has become a common theme: nothing is free. In a chapter entitled, "What Is Beautiful?" we learn that there could be a mathematical formula for beauty. In an interview with Dr. Stephen J. Marquardt, Kuczynski questions Dr. Marquardt's idea that beauty can be captured in a computer program. Beauty in the form of mathematical proportions loses its mystery of "you know it when you see it" to become a quantifiable commodity. The allure of equal beauty for all, those with enough cash that is, has women and increasing numbers of men, racing to the cosmetic surgeons. In our information age, there is no shortage of knowledge on the topic; type cosmetic surgery and books into a search engine and voila, the titles fill the screen.  From the nitty-gritty how-to books, to the more academically inclined Making the Body Beautiful: A Cultural History of Aesthetic Surgery, beauty is big business.

If Antonius is to be believed, beauty is, in and of itself, beautiful, regardless of the consideration of others. In reality, beginning in childhood with the queen's magic mirror zeroing in on Snow White, the ruthlessness of beauty as competitor is revealed. 

To be human is to want to belong.  The praise that Antonius spoke of pulls us into its orbit, and as we fill the space, it becomes crowded, bodies bumping into each other. From the desire of praise, competition is born. 

So are we surprised that strident on the front page of Sunday's New York Times, is the headline "For Girls, It's Be Yourself, and Be Perfect, Too"?  The bottom line for girls, and increasingly boys, is that good is never enough. The young women chronicled here engage in what has become the typical upper-middle-class college path. Days filled with Advanced Placement courses, extracurriculars and, in some cases, jobs, yet one young woman worries that her resume will be overlooked due to her lack of athletic ability. A father comparing his less structured childhood faults himself, 2006 America, and the Northeast for the incessant activities.  An outgrowth of the competitive nature of America, laying blame is much less frightening than jumping ship.  S.A.T. prep courses, community service, athletics, employment, each a necessary building block in the pursuit of success; dare you take a chance that one less will still get you your heart's desire?

Competition by its very nature, is honed towards survival.  Love it, hate it, none of us are immune to its charms. Women seeking beauty in surgery and girls on the verge of womanhood learning it is not enough to be smart—you have to be "hot" as well.  The prizes are significant, an income large enough to give your children as good as you got, satisfying work, partnership with someone you desire. Remember that old cliché, "beauty is as beauty does?" Meant to comfort, it fools no one. Beauty does quite well, thank you very much. It continues, alive and well, one eyelash at a time.       

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Daycare: it’s more than just chatter


 

This morning's broadcast of the Today Show focused on a recently released study regarding the effects of daycare attendance on children's later behavior.  According to the study, which is documented in the current issue of Child Development, there is a correlation between the amount of time a child spent in daycare and the same child's behavior in sixth grade.  As reported by sixth-grade teachers, the children who spent more time in center-based child care were more likely to display problem behaviors.  The same study also noted that children who had participated in higher quality daycare before entering kindergarten received a higher vocabulary score in the fifth grade than those children receiving lower quality care.  Conducted by the National Institutes of Health, the study involving these 1,364 children, who have been tracked since birth, is the largest study of child care and development carried out in the United States.

In the tradition of wrapping up everything nice and neat with a bow, the Today Show's discussion of the topic can be summed up in a sound bite: parents choose your child care carefully.  While it is unrealistic to expect a thorough discussion of the study to be fitted into a five-minute segment, at least the information shared should avoid the trite.  Today's segment on the correlation between children's behavior and language development and time spent in daycare manages to be both naïve and trite.  Twice during the discussion, Matt Lauer commented that the cost of child care was not indicative of the quality of the care provided.  The notion that cost does not translate into quality child care ignores the fact that research has upheld that one of the best predictors of quality child care is the training received by the childcare providers.  Regardless of how or where this training is received, it is a cost that is often passed on to parents.         

The point Lauer made that it is the people who care for the children that are important, rather than the dollars paid by parents, is well taken.  Yes, the people who care for children should be nurturing and loving.  They should also be well versed in the whys and hows of child development.  Why should you speak to an infant, when he can't even talk?  Why do two-year-olds want to do everything for themselves?  How do you tell a parent that you have concerns regarding her daughter's development?  Knowledge, in distinguishing high-quality from low-quality care, does not come without a price tag.  When we demand that childcare providers offer educated care, it is only reasonable for us to expect that they will want payment and benefits commensurate with their knowledge and experience.

As is standard for morning news shows, a guest speaker — in this case, child psychologist Neil Bernstein — was brought aboard to highlight points of the study.  In explaining the increased vocabulary scores by those fifth graders who attended higher quality child care before kindergarten, Bernstein attributed the "constant chatter" he assumes is found in daycare classrooms as the key contributor to these results.  In another example of assumption living up to its reputation, Bernstein overlooks the emphasis placed on language development by trained childcare providers.  It is also no accident that quality childcare programs manage to actively engage children, thus minimizing the "hitting" that Bernstein marked as red flags of low-quality care.  Training, like that offered by Dr. Becky Bailey, founder of Conscious Discipline, gives childcare providers knowledge and strategies to foster positive classroom interactions.                      

Research continues to support what we have long suspected: caring for young children in daycare centers is much more than baby-sitting.  We know what children in daycare need: childcare providers trained in appropriate child development practices.  What may be more interesting is our response.  Are we ready to make the changes needed to provide all children with quality child care?  Can we make the jump from academia to reality?  Enough with the sound bites — been there, done that.

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Life’s not-so- little ironies


 

As the war in Iraq continues, the media focus intensifies.  From highlighting the courage of the individuals who serve, to figuring out just how many troops will be needed and for how long, the media attempts to paint a picture for those of us less affected by the war.

Like a canvas the front page of Tuesday's New York Times informs that the Army's "ready" brigade, a part of the 82nd Airborne Division that has been kept on 24 hour alert for decades, is not as fit as it used to be.  As the members of the First Brigade of the 82nd Airborne Division, prepare for a tour in Iraq, they find themselves not fully trained, their equipment scattered, unable to meet their standard of deploying several hundred soldiers to a war zone within 18 hours.  Currently, about 50% of the Army's 43 active duty combat brigades,  each consisting of 3,500 soldiers, are serving overseas.  Upon meeting the White House's demand for additional troops, the Army will have a total of 17 brigades deployed to Iraq, two brigades will be in Afghanistan, and four will be deployed to various overseas locations.

Hiding in the background, is an idea by Commerce Secretary Carlos M. Gutierrez's staff, to pressure the Iraqi government to stop giving people monthly food rations.  This suggestion set off a major dispute between Commerce and the State Department.  According to this week's National Edition of The Washington Post, the Iraqi government spends about four billion per year to provide basic rations to all Iraqis regardless of need.  A former embassy official further emphasized the lack of desire on the part of Iraqi politicians to end the distribution of free food.  As Commerce continues to insist on its idea, the irrelevancy of the plan is noted, "I can't tell you how many hundreds of hours everyone has wasted on this issue, when there were all sorts of more productive things they could have been doing with their time," stated one former embassy official.            

          

In small brushstokes, February's Fitness Magazine shares the story of how two women, who have lost their husbands in Iraq, use running to remember their husbands and heal their grief.    

Front and center, the soldier frozen on the cover of last Sunday's The New York Times Magazine challenges readers to discover the trauma suffered by female American soldiers deployed to Iraq and Afghanistan.

Tucked in the right back corner, the OP-ED pages of this week's The Washington Post's National Weekly Edition, give life to former senator Alan K. Simpson's support to overturning the ban on gay service in the military. 

In a signature moment, co host Joy Behar of The View , earlier this week pointed out that it is the men and women of the Armed services and their families that are actually making the sacrifices in the war on Iraq.  During a discussion of Iraqi policy, Joy Behar emphasized her opinion that Americans as a whole have not been asked to make any sacrifices in support of the war effort.

Whether we find it in magazines, newspapers, or interviews, the word on Iraq, the war, its citizens, our American soldiers; is irony.  As the Army faces the difficult prospect of having to return some of its brigades to Iraq with less than a year's training and recuperation, more than 300 hundred language experts have been dismissed under the government's "don't ask, don't tell" policy.  Government agencies who have been asked to work together to resolve problems facing the Iraqi nation; instead end up in their own turf wars.  A couple train for a triathlon yet it is only the wife who crosses the finish line.  Her husband, an Army officer serving in Iraq, killed by a car bomb during a routine check.  Soldiers, carrying the burden of their gender, feel pressured to remain tough, less emotional, to show the world that yes; women can serve in a war zone; find themselves enduring and hiding sexual abuse from their male superiors. 

Each day the sacrifices pile up, careers lost, women made widows long before their time, sleep broken by nightmares, time wasted.  A burden shouldered by a few, images and words to the rest of us.  Yes, the sacrifices are out there, like weeds in the summer, just waiting for someone to pay them mind.                  

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