"No Touching" - part one of a triptych of prison blogs.

No touching -- The theme of my life. And, incidentally, the perfect phrase to introduce the primary, and overwhelming force in my life right now, and the reason I want to start blogging again.

For the past three months, I’ve been working with a team in the Civil Rights Clinic to represent a prisoner incarcerated at the federal Supermax prison. (Supermax does in fact mean exactly what it sounds like – the Bureau of Prisons has little stake in the art of language, as you might imagine) Our client is undoubtedly one of the kindest, loveliest individuals I’ve ever had the privilege to meet, but one who also happens to be, er, an international terrorist of sorts. He’s faced myriad injustices, which failed to cease the moment he arrived in The Land of the Free. Since mid-August, my thoughts are devoted to figuring out how to help this man to get some modicum of justice, a mere fraction of that which he has been denied for so long.

Donna, on culling a list of candidates for Presidential pardons:

“You tell me? Do we toss out Daisy Aimes, mother of three who had a boyfriend who stored a kilo in her closet. She's done eight years and is facing eleven more. That's longer than rapists and child molesters get. I don't see a list anymore. These are people.” (“The Benign Prerogative”).

They are people. I’ve met one of them. I ingratiated myself with him by telling my usual repertoire of self-deprecating jokes. The last time we had a conference call, he told us about 6 jokes in his charmingly halting English that he has devised about tall people from Texas. He had written them down and brought them with him to the phone. I was so delighted and moved, I was practically weeping with laughter.

The situation of the average prisoner in the United States is something I knew literally nothing about before I applied for the clinic. Nevertheless, I have never been one to buy into the bullshitty propoganda that prisons are vacation homes, serving duck pate and serving up premium cable channels like a fucking Hilton. I’m not concerned that our (read: Bryce’s) hard-earned tax dollars are going to buy feather beds for violent offenders.

Note: If you are the kind of person who believes prisons are too cushy for the people they house, and that all prisoners should be put down to keep taxpayers from having to support them, stop reading and go fuck yourself. I’m too enmeshed in this prisoner stuff to have patience for people who are wrong. Or, in the alternative, swing by charming Florence, CO. In addition to housing “the worst of the worst” [their slogan not mine] it’s a antiquing mecca.

I digress. And all I really want to say is this: People do bad things, and it’s fine that they go to prison. That’s how it should work. (non-violent drug crimes being a topic for another time). But in order to maintain that order, the order that says they should be in and we should be out, we have to make the right decisions for those who have lost their freedom. Because treating people humanely should be how we earn our freedom.

*Note: My one and only tat should give an indication which way I lean on this subject. If, after reading this post, you feel my idea of prisoners’ rights is hopelessly quixotic, then remember, I did have “justice” carved into my forearm by a 300 pound man named Butch.

Today I re-read letters from our client’s family entreating the parole board to let him come home and spent his remaining time with his family. No matter how much I think about this case, no matter how much I feel convinced of the injustice of the situation and the righteousness of our client, I will never be able to read those letters and not be moved to a point at which I am forced to realize, yet again that I cannot empathize enough.

“She said that after he missed one birthday, one Christmas, one fly-fishing season, the following years he’s spent in Leavenworth have been a frozen hell….She said if it would help she would get down on her knees. She begged for your mercy."

Understanding another's personhood is the best way to become an advocate for them. It helps me to know our client -- Prisoners are not statistics. They are like Texans -- only much shorter.

The Case of the Missing Keys

i have a bookmark that i've been using during my spring break whirlwind tour of fantasy/mystery fiction.  It depicts a cartoon rabbit wearing sunglasses, leaning against a tree reading a book.  At the top, a thought bubble reads, "Some of my best friends are books." This rabbit is me, from its ridiculously large cartoon teeth right down to its abnormally proportioned feet, but most especially in it's thought process.  yet, if this were me, it might say something more like, "Other than bear and bryce, books are my only best friends (in denver)". The veracity of this statement was quite plainly illustrated last night, in a story that begins (and probably ends) with me being an ass (this post is turning into a regular Aesop's fable, eh?)

i can be a bit, er, absentminded (i think that is the term used to describe a charming lunacy in those claiming some measure of brilliance - "Absentminded Professor", eg).  Last night, while waiting for "Duplicity" to begin, bryce and i strolled round the mall, and wound up, by sheer gravitational pull, in Anthropologie.  While making fun of someone, using an Anthro accessory as a prop, i put down my bundle of things in order to really give this joke my all (that's right, still no purse, though i do carry a woman's wallet now, if you'd like something to give me credit for).  Hours later, after the mall had closed, we left the movie and discovered that i did not have my keys.  Strike that - bryce's keys.  double damn. Not only had i lost them because i am absentminded, i'd done it while imitating someone, a bit cattily. double jackass.  we have no cash (who does??) for a taxi and thus proceed to walk the 3.1 miles home, conveniently through a posh neighborhood on one of the warmest nights we've had in months.  needless to say, bryce is not pleased.  nor am i, for that matter, but when you are me, you just get used to this kind of stuff.  que sera, and all that. but the bookmark related bit occured when on the Long walk home, whilst being shadowed by the ghost of my accidents past, and guided by the wavering lantern light of the ghost of jackassy-ness to come, bryce noted that we really don't know anyone here.  It's true.  i have some school friends' numbers, but would rather eat my big toe and walk crooked for the rest of my life than ask them for a favor. plus, we don't Know them...not in the rescue us on a saturday night at 11 pm way. 

So i guess it might be time for us to look into making the kind of friends you can call for such things. But in the light of a perfect, 77 degree, sunny day, all i want to do is sit outside, and forge a stronger relationship with my new best friend, Sherlock Holmes, whom i could no doubt call upon for the very ablest assistance! that is, if he were real. 

Vernal Equinox Resolutions

Sunday morning I received an extraordinarily pleasant surprise.  It was Spring Forward day--Hooray!  I know, those who go to church love to bitch every year about losing an hour...hey, look at that-- another plus for the secular world.  (Also, those who don't go to church don't make their kids trick-or-treat at 4:30pm when Halloween is on a Sunday or Wednesday, but that's a sad saga for another time...)  Spring Forward is my second favorite holiday, after Easter.  They are grouped into the top tier for the following reasons:

1. end of winter!!!

2. longer days, sunnier evenings

3. beginning of warmth = self-esteem-achieved through tan = happiness

4. anticipation of summer holidays is now appropriate (yep, I'll be having them til I'm 29)

*These top two holidays would be tied for favorite, but Spring Forward just cannot compete with Peeps --i mean,  it's spun sugar, covered in sugar.  "Come On!" (see Gob, A.D. season 2)

 

This annual dawn of joy provides myriad pleasing consequences.   Every spring/summer my winter hibernation from all things/people is shed and i am once again capable of finding joy in new things, and maybe even new people (don't hold your breath, strangers-in-line-for-friendship).  

So, I've decided to use this joyful posture to my advantage by doing new things!  Winter is a time for re-reading classics and listening to the "slow" mix i made 7 years ago. Winter is a time to eat the same soup/bread/king size box of hot tamales for dinner every night. Winter -- bleach.

This spring I plan to do the following (and blog about it, of course):

1. Discover and read new fiction (and a little non-)

2. Get new music (actually new, not another Paul Simon song to add to my Simon-only playlist)

3. Start food blog, by which i will be both eating and writing about new things (p.s., if you can think of a good name for this, its the only things standing in my way...something to do with bread/butter might be best...)

4. go to new places in denver, i.e. restaurants which don't deliver, museums, bars, parks, etc

5. Learn new things -- most importantly typing, for my summer internship, and to keep myself from further ridicule, generally.  Also, spanish and french. should take a couple weeks. 

6. Learn more about gardening, house-repair and improvement, and implement that knowledge, so that next winter, when I hibernate, i'll be comfy as shit. 

Obviously, list writing is my forte, so in the coming weeks, its going to be a spring-list bonanza around here!!!  

P.S. In honor of spring, please re-watch "Evidence of things not seen"  (see season four)  CJ's faith in of the Vernal Equinox is so charming - it's magic!  

What kind of day it has been

Windy. Also known as GOD-AWFUL. Wind is my least favorite weather, and if nothing else, it makes intelligent design completely moot, b/c the inventor of wind is obviously an ass. An ass who hates me.
Wind literally makes me feel insane (as this post's sentence structure will reveal—form follows function, you know)—all normal human instincts escape me and I just want to hibernate. It infiltrates my typically you-think-i'm-stoned-but-i'm-just-apathetic/oblivious demeanor and creates sundry pathetic situations.
Here's what happened to me today, all of which should and shall be blamed on the wind.

First, following my first trek through the evil element, I almost started crying in front of a graduate assistant I hardly know—not that knowing her would make that any less embarrassing. I made my worst grade in her class last semester and I really, really want/have to do better. This task seems impossible. I've been trying to get more involved in class, and seeking guidance as often as possible, yet both the professor and the graduate assistant of this class speak in a style with which I am thoroughly unfamiliar. They speak in broad, enigmatic statements, in what can only be an effort to lead me to about a billion possible answers for the extraordinarily simple question I asked. I think they are doing it to torture me. Also, after 7 months, the teacher thinks my name is Ms. Chambers. awesome. awesomely good chance of improving this grade. So today, in the middle of my conference with said G.A., I literally had to croak, “Thanks…”, grab my stuff, and run out after she would not answer my question for the trillionth time and instead launched into some of the broadest advice I've ever heard, something about as helpful as "just try your best and you'll be fine" or "you're on the right track!" At this point, my eyes were stinging, and I knew I was about to lose it.
What the fuck? Why is this spontaneous flood of emotion happening to me? Can it be the wind? Most certainly, it can.

Next, on my way home for lunch, I was nearly blown over on my bike -- no mean feat! congrats wind, you bastard. At this point, I already wanted to allow myself to succumb—to tip to the right that infinitesimal amount that stands between balance and disaster, to collapse into the grass, 100 pound backpack and all, and lay there crying in a big beige heap until the wind died down.

Yet I persevered. And got home to discover that what was once an old-in-a-charming-way house has revealed itself for the shanty piece of shit that it is. The fence had blown down in the backyard, ensuring an afternoon of Bear escaping and me running after her, begging her to return in exchange for a shit load of treats (I know, “no bad dogs, just bad owners” pile on, why don’t ya?!). Additionally, two gutters had fallen down, which i tried to repair, creating an hilarious scene for the stoned kid next door. As I tried to eat/ drown my sorrows in my massive bowl of Honey Bunches of Oats with Peaches, the wind was whistling through the house with such force that I was hardly able to hear myself crunch.

After pedaling back through the wind (i had to trick myself into thinking it had stopped in order to leave the house) I had to excuse myself during my class. Apparently, my two-month-old cough (i'm allergic to snow) had, as a result of exposure to wind, turned into an embarrassingly frequent and severe-sounding hacking/gagging noise. With tears (from the cough this time) streaming from my eyes, I traipsed past 100 students while simultaneously trying to hold in the cough and put my sweater on over my favorite shirt, which incidentally had holes the size of My fists in the armpits. (saddest thing yet: I think this shirt is exceptionally flattering) It took about 10 minutes to calm the cough and catch my breath, which also leads me to resolve to stop unnecessary (read: sober) smoking. Dammit. Now the wind has my pride and my recreational activities.

Wind's one redeeming quality is that it never fails to remind me of abbie. Wearing her puffy orange and brown jacket, thrusting one arm forward, she would push through the wind like a mime, fighting against all the invisible shit they push against, in order to fight our way from the Bean to our beds, and then back again - a well traveled path for us in those days. Also, the smell of skunks reminds me of abbie. Story for another time…

With this amusing image in my mind for sustenance, i shall go once more into the breach, force myself to travel the 4 blocks home, and maybe, just maybe, never leave again.

“Bernard’s Blogland”; or in the alternative, “Cherry Trees, etc.”

Preface:
Josh: "Posting raw exit poll data without any explanation or analysis--it's irresponsible and dangerous..."
Lou: "anybody who's checking out exit polling on a blog voted first thing this morning at 6:45 am...do you really think somebody's gonna look at Bernard's Blog-land and mistake what they read for network news? ... How big do you think the readership of Bernard's Blog-land is?"

Question:
Is there a blogging code of ethics? I hope not, but just in case, I'll say up front that what I am about to speak of is as yet undocumented by any reliable source (a.k.a. hasn't been printed in the Optimist) so I shall trust you all to enjoy my usual cocktail: a fair amount of hyperbole shaken with a shot of speculation, and a damn-load of tequila...

In this, the season of Dr. King’s, Washington’s, Lincoln's, and Darwin's birthday--a virtual menagerie of truth-telling, sooth-saying old guys--I think we should reflect on the principle of truth. Honest Abe, cherry trees, and all that. So, I've written a letter to someone who has recently told the truth, and will now suffer the consequences. Because, ask those lauded men of history—it comes with a price. (Or ask me—I recently disclosed to Bryce how much my haircut cost…big fucking mistake. Don’t judge me! – I’m still using the same eyeliner I wore at my wedding, and employing a $3 concealer stick marketed to 13 years olds to cover my adult acne—I can be thrifty, gdammit. but i've had yellow hair too many times to skimp on hair)

Background: (feel free to skim, if you’ve been following the blog as you should)
A few months ago I published a post that was in essence the culmination of six years of an ACU education. Naturally, bitterness abounds. An open display of hate towards a student tore the thin veil that is "the charm of Abilene," which had formerly sustained me, right in two (see God, in, "The Bible") when a noose was placed in this kid's office.
ACU was then revealed to me in all its Voldemort-before-he-returned-to-his-body nakedness: a sick, evil creature infecting its already ignorant students with what will become a lifetime of lies and bullshit.
However--
My vexation is now nearing wrath (see The Flood, in the above). The alleged hate-crime victim has admitted that he planted the noose ON HIMSELF.

Ok, so not everyone I’ve spoken with is surprised…I was shocked – here’s why:

Dear *&%$@#%&((&!!!!!,

Don't you know???
Don't you know that this kind of behavior is the reason race relations will never be resolved in this country?
--That this nonsense will now provide fuel for fanatical ultra conservatives to continue to oppress and marginalize (and a little fuel goes along way with people who are genetically engineered for hunting and holing up in forts)?
-- that this behavior is what keeps rape victims from getting any semblance of justice,
-what keeps women who work AND need welfare from getting the fair shake they need, and instead allows a generation to perpetuate the myth that they are all abusing the system,
-what allows undocumented mothers who have babies here to be labeled conniving and their children demeaned with the term "anchor babies"?
-what perpetuates stereotypes about gays, about women, about all ethnicities (I shan't/can't enumerate their "colors" since I’m not that crazy preacher from the inauguration, though it would add nicely to the cadence I’m trying to build) and makes a solution that much further away.

All I’m saying is, on Lincoln's birthday, at a school that just started acknowledging Martin Luther King's existence this decade, I hope you know...

friend-o-phobia.

Toby: “Federated states of Micronesia”
Sam: “Toby says it’s a country”
Pres Bartlett: “It is a country, you know where?”
Toby: “I assume it’s a small island in the south pacific”
Pres Bartlett: “Its actually 607 small islands in the south pacific…interestingly, while its total land mass is only 270 sq miles, it occupies more than a million square miles of the pacific ocean, the population is 127, 000 and the us embassy is located in the state of ponapei, and not as many people believe, on the island of yap”
Toby: “Why would a person have that information at their disposal?”
President Bartlett: “Parties…”

Parties…(sigh)…we used to go to parties. In fact, I even used to Host parties. Or at least, I hosted gatherings designed to get my friends drunk enough to compliment my cooking…

The other day I came home from a dog-date with a classmate. He is also a Texan, and as I recounted in detail to Bryce all the brilliant things Bear did that day (jump, chomp, run, walk, chomp…) I also mentioned that I told said Texan that I was ready to go back, or at least, I planned to end up in Texas, and practice law there.
Bryce was shocked. I think he actually choked.
This change of heart hinges 99% on one thing. Friends. (the other one percent is a small portion of my heart that knows Texas needs a liberal lawyer a wee bit more than California, where I’d much prefer to set up “Katie-saves-the-day-for-Gay (and other marginalized groups) Inc.”
I cannot make new friends. More than that, I don’t want to. I like my old friends. I need to stick with the very small group of people I’ve honed after years and years of being turned off by, or more likely, turning off, potential friends. I need people who enjoy sarcasm and pie, are both funny and smart, and will love me despite the fact that every time I get even moderately drunk I end up dancing in a small group of people like an ungainly Tevya. (also, they can’t judge the bottle of fruity vodka I have to drink to get to that point)

However, even if I thought there was someone else out there for me, I’ll never know, because I’ve devolved into a hopeless sweaty agoraphobe. Here are some illustrations of my hopelessness. At least I can laugh about them with my new confidant, the ol blog…


Before Christmas, as I was studying for finals, two people knocked on our door. Apparently this very kind looking couple just moved in to the street behind us and were canvassing the neighborhood, meeting people, which entailed a pleasing conversation and a concerted effort to learn our names, and passing out homemade candy.
Here are my immediate thoughts:
‘DANGER!!!!! Obviously, they were canvassing the neighborhood, targeting tiny homes like ours with Saturns out front, in order to case the joint for the inevitable treasures within. ‘ ‘Also, this candy is totally poisoned. Even though it looks damn delicious, I’m throwing it away. They plainly want to kill us AND take our stuff.’
A month later, they invited us to a basketball game. I was on the verge of saying “no, no-no, NO”, when bryce came in, met them, and immediately accepted.
Turns out, they are damned nice. So nice, in fact, that I wish I had eaten that candy.

One of our teachers has a very bizarre pattern of speech/inflection. She says each word separately, allowing them to hang in the air, and slowly build into a sentence. It’s a real mental challenge to piece them together, but I would hope I typically would not laugh at other people’s speech impediments.
Well, yesterday, in about the middle of a sentence, as I was trying to visualize each word and hold them up as a banner in my brain, she got to the word “BALLS” and it just hung (har) in the air for a few minutes. I lost it. I am a child.

A girl I like at school was wearing a belt with turtles on it…(in a cute way, not in a weird-o, hello kitty way) On the tip of my tongue was the following: “Hey, turtles are my third favorite animal!” I was forced by a diversion in her attention to reflect, and hopefully have retained a shred of dignity by keeping that little gem to myself.
In case you were wondering, #1 bears, #2 owls.
More to come…

Joy cometh in the Blogging

My blood feels like its boiling. In fact, in the past few years, and particularly while in law school, this seething discomfort occurs fairly often, it's increasing, i believe, and it is driving me fucking crazy. Statements regarding (wrong) positions on guns, anti-choice, anti-gay, anti-woman, or any minute allusion to the aforementioned get me so riled, I quite literally lose control.
If I consider raising my hand in class to assert an alternate view, my heart beats so fast I feel raising my hand may be the last thing I do, and since I’d much rather have that be eating cake or meeting Martin Sheen, I quickly lower the offending limb. The physical manifestations spread, making my face turn red, my hands and voice shake, and my cutting remarks come more quickly, yet unfortunately much less creatively, than they ought.
For example→
Today I wrote “Justice Scalia is a prat” in the margin of my con law text book. Typically I would not support graffiting one's disparagement of the Supreme Court, who I revere. In fact, much as I stumble, I'd like to refer to members of high office by their title (which i did here, by habit i suppose) and with the respect that such an office deserves, no matter who they are, or if they are destroying the meaning of freedom (yeah, didn't manage the respect so much).
I couldn’t help it. (you believe me right?) This is a medical condition! I just had to release some of the effervescent indignation building from reading a Texas case which provided some sort of hick-decoder ring for the 2nd amendment and discovered the inalienable right to shoot people (the right to shoot animals and 3/5 of people is a given). This, combined with the forboding awareness that the Supreme Court has recently affirmed this view, and passed out guns at a recent meeting of the 5 families in D.C.--ugh, I couldn't even finish the chapter.
So I resorted to more cheerful endeavors. However, this despoiling of a $170 text, in addition to the smoking of one cigarette, reading of 3 chapters of Persuasion, and eating an entire bag of ranch flavored mini rice cakes, (rendering them less healthy, perhaps?), did not distract my mind or buoy my spirits. Therefore, I return, fair reader, overcoming my blogger’s block once and for all, to divert myself from this god awful feeling. It seems my only recourse is to amuse myself by returning to vox populi and investing a considerable amount of time pondering the workings of the best faux white house there ever was. I had resolved to be a better student this year, but i think its plain that's already gone to shit, sooo...
Let the writing begin!

Nobody say gun, or I won’t be able to type.

the burden of "plain english"

 "In my house, anyone who uses one word when they could have used ten just isn't trying hard enough" --President Bartlett. 

More often than not, I torture the English language with unintended ironies (see use of "insidious" is previous post).  Also, I'm so concerned with PC details that i ignore trivial things like spelling and grammar all together.  ("Go-to...guy?  The problem with English.  Guy's wrong, gal is patronizing and person sounds arch" Leo).  The room to improve, however, is a challenge, and I'd like to think that in a society that is so content with par, that has recently added "meh" to the dictionary in a revealing stroke of our need for another word to describe that which we are unwilling to learn a "real" word for, we who care about the language can raise the bar in this area.  Our language, though useless on my legal resume' (in which i am claiming to be "proficient" in both spanish and french...heh), is amazing, and should be employed in all its variations and eccentricities.  (see "The Professor and the Madman").  Let me explain...

I finished reading Sense and Sensibility this morning, and the same thing that happens every time I read Austen is happening again.  I begin to think in Victorian-Brit prose.  I wrote a letter to my landlord this morning, and inquired as to whether the handyman who used to do some work for him was "still in your employ?" In his employ???  I'm writing this to a guy who has done his share of drugs, and then some, and the evidence of such is reflected in every conversation we have.  Usually, I say something like, Hello Mr. E___, this is Katie Campbell who lives at your property on G___ Street", and he says, "er. uh-huh??" (btw, this man drives a Porsche).  That's the end of any semblance of understanding, and I end up adopting a tone I imagine should be reserved for three years olds, if i knew any.  

Employment of thesauruses (thesauri??) is also discouraged in my current educational sphere.  I was perusing a graded assignment of mine today, and couldn't miss the word "heretofore" circled, with like a thousand lines through it, as if it was some sort of nasty racial slur.  I get that it isn't a popular word, but my motto is that for all words, there is a time and a place (a season, turn, turn), even for the most sesquipedalian among them (See "The Professor and the Madman" again, please).  Also, heretofore means exactly what it sounds like!  Unfortunately, the current trend in legal writing is to use "plain English" at all costs.  bleah.  plain english is boring, it's over-simplified, it's vanilla, it's Governor Rob Ritchie--"good for all time zones."  Why not cater our speech to the subject matter, rather than to the lowest common denominator?  Why should we, who are (supposedly) capable of memorizing the entire Federal Rules of Civil Procedure, be discouraged from devoting a few extra lines to making it sound a bit more palatable?  Must we banish art from our language, as it has been banished from all recent National Budgets? (a topic for another blog, to be sure...)

Perhaps utilizing polysyllables disenfranchises those who have not had the opportunity to get an advanced education.  Perhaps it is more generous to allow legal writing and conversations with one's landlord be accessible to all.  I think this is a worthy argument, but I also think that raising the bar invites everyone to be challenged by it.  And paying for education in those we seek to write for is surely a better plan for equality than limiting our writing to hackneyed terms and turns of phrase.

Bryce just told me that Google released it's top ten searches for 2008.  Brittany Spears and World Wrestling beat President-elect Obama in the number 1 and 2 slots.  The other seven are mostly hot women, some significantly under the age of 20, and all richer than we will ever dream of being.  What does this say about us?  Probably nothing we don't already know:  we're a broke, lazy, self-serving nation of people who all think they can be President (well, at least Vice President) passing out guns and U.S. weekly like they are candy, and eating candy like we have a damn tapeworm (i wish).  

It seems to me that America has very few options left for redemption.  Perhaps by improving our language, we will improve ourselves.  It's worked for Pres-e. Obama so far...god, I hope he keeps the thesaurus out for the next eight years.   

Redemption song

or should i say, redemption quotes.  To redeem that ill-reputed holiday, Thanksgiving.  I'm currently enduring my last week of class for the semester (hooray) and counting down the seconds until we get to leave for Abilene, and a delightful 12 hour drive, from which I will emerge smelling of sweat, cheetos, and probably dog, but I am still dying to go.  In honor of this excitement, I've decided to forgive Thanksgiving for it previous transgressions.  

I started hating Thanksgiving when I was a freshman in college. The dorms would be empty by noon on Tuesday, and there I was, one lonely girl with a mass of yellow hair (a disastrous attempt at self-bleaching) sitting on a pile of clothes in the filthiest room in Gardner.  My mom was working at UTMB, which didn't close school until Wednesday afternoon, and since we had our Thanksgiving in Abilene, I sat and waited (and ate, one can only assume) for 36 hours until they arrived.  Some variation on this pathetic scene happened every year for the duration of my undergrad career. 

Certainly I made this waiting period more painful than it needed to be.  I had family in Abilene, but I wasn't in a socialize-with-extended-family place at the time. (well, not everything has changed.  I'm being dragged by the poorly shorn hair to the Campbell thanksgiving this year.)   Also, it was such a relief to be free of my crazy fuck of a freshman roommate, that it was nice for the first few hours.  Well, anyway, whether or not you think this merits a full blown hatred of the holiday, it happened, and there's more where that came from.  Plus, I'm slow to relinquish a grudge.  

However, this year I am going to make peace with this redundant holiday (we have a turkey at christmas, too, don't you?  so what's the big damn deal?  I'd rather have a second drinking holiday, like New Years, or Wednesday) by presenting aloud all of the wrongs Thanksgiving has wrought upon me (um, and also the Indians, I think) and by washing them away with a cornucopia of West Wing quotations. 

Anyway, because even I can't present a ten page post of WW quotes, I'll present these Thanksgiving treats in a few parts.  The reasons I can love thanksgiving again.  

CJ, to Toby and Sam: "Have either of you heard of the Jamestown Mayflower Daughters of the American Revolution Preservation Society?"

Toby: "The Jamestown Mayflower Daughters..."

CJ: "I may have gotten the name wrong. They're inviting the White House to participate in some kind of Thanksgiving Revolutionary War Reenactment"

Toby: "CJ, let's not torture American History completely to death...Jamestown was the 16th century, the Mayflower landed at Plymouth in the 17th century, the Fathers of the Daughters of the American Revolution fought in the 18th century!!!"

CJ: "Its a festival-feast of some kind! Who cares??"

Sam: "Somebody needs to learn the true meaning of Thanksgiving"

CJ: "Reenactments and proclamations and Native American corn-husk hanging ceremonies..."

--a festival-feast.--corn-hust hanging.  har har har. 

and one tragedy from freshman year floats into the land of the forgiven...

The Beginning...

Mary Marsh: "you don't pray to any god I pray to, not any god I pray to" 

Josh: "Lady, the god your pray to is too busy being indicted for tax fraud"

whoever it is you pray to, be it Aaron Sorkin, god of writing, or SJP, goddess of fashion, be it Tolkien, or Rowling,  Locke or Hobbes, the inventor of Nutella or the creator of white bread (both of whom i've been devoting a lot of thought to lately), or you know, actually God, please, please submit your appeal for a new beginning for the U.S. at their feet today. and by new, i don't mean an old, white diminish-er of the estate tax and the dignity of women, gays, and ethnic minorities.  

"I am the Lord your God"--Bartlet.  damn right. 

"it's legislative gay bashing"

-President Bartlet. Seems to be a lot of that going around now, eh?

If my strict adherence to heterosexual monogamy (see evidence of such all over bhousen's comment page) is the most conservative thing about me, i feel it necessary to reclaim my forward-thinking status with a quick post on my most liberal belief, at least by the currently low standards for such things, one that even the current rash of HOPE-ful dems refuse to touch. No, it's not my devotion to PBS and NPR, though if stereotypes make us, my source of entertainment has placed me firmly in the seriously socialist camp.
(incidentally, the WW episode in which Toby defends PBS is delightful. "In the meantime, a time when the public is rightly concerned about the impact of sex and violence on TV, this administration is gonna protect the Muppets! We're gonna protect Wall Street Week, we're gonna protect Live from Lincoln Center, and by God, we are going to protect Julia Child!" **love** okay, onward...)
Last weekend, as I was giving Bryce a really professional(-ish) looking haircut in our kitchen, and while listening, per above, to NPR, i heard something that made me so mad. (Holy, righteous anger being the new theme of this blog...delightful, eh?) Some complete arse from South Dakota, or one of about twelve rectangle shaped states that I don't give a damn about, and so mentally interchange oftener than not, was speaking out about the not-rights of gays and lesbians to adopt. Unsurprisingly, there is a ballot initiative to prevent "singles" from adopting, itself a ludicrous idea, made altogether more insidious by the fact that it has been openly acknowledged to be aimed at potential gay parents. He said, (essentially, but the quotes make it look more powerful) "Gay adoption is just another tool the gay community is wielding to fulfill its goal of world domination" or some shit. He did actually say that "gays are using children to forward their radical gay agenda," and, of course, didn't pass up the chance to allude to the children being abused. If Bryce wasn't my only friend, but instead some conservative i was giving this haircut, i may have stabbed him in the neck from outrage.

Even before my conversion away from the fanatical-blindness of my childhood, I had a firmly "liberal" stance on this issue. I remember being the only person in my sophomore Ethics course who was willing to provide the counter-argument for gay adoption; counter, at ACU, being against keeping children protected from that sinful environment. (Thank you, Dr. Trevathan, for making me talk in class...um and also for being my hero). I just honestly don't understand this line of thinking--"it alludes me" (CJ, on how a father might be embarrassed that his murdered son was gay). here's why i don't get it:

Josh "studies show children grow up best with a mother and a father" Amy: "studies show children grow up best with parents who Love Them."

Coming from a traditionally American unhappy home, I know exactly what its like to have one charming, lovely, loving, and one cold, controlling, son of a bitch for parents. Actually, this 50/50 split probably puts me at a significant advantage compared to many. Let's reimagine my childhood dreams of sugar-plums and divorce, and consider what those dreams would have looked like if i knew gays existed. (we weren't allowed to watch much tv. um, or see movies. er, or look at people with beer-slogans on their attire) Two moms? Dream come fucking true!!!

Seriously, when i think about the number of children for whom one or both of their parents didn't want them, i cannot fathom why we would not provide the opportunity for every couple/individual who sincerely wants a child, and who is willing to go through the agonizing adoption process and submit to screenings and interviews and eternal waiting periods to raise a child who needs them. I wish I could talk to this doltish-Dakotan and make him listen to reason, or better yet, to the laundry list of issues i now have from growing up in a straight, anglo, church 3-5 times a week, middle class home and see if they fit with how he imagines parenting "by a man and a woman" is supposed to turn out.

It makes me sad that our current crop of "liberal" democrats aren't doing more to address this issue. okay, aren't doing anything. When i saw Joe Biden outright agree with Sarah Palin about their stance on gay issues in the VP debate, I practically turned off the tv. ( and i would have, but it's a new kind that i don't know yet). I'll be voting for Obama, because I think he will be fantastic. Leaders--like the one he can potentially be--are exactly what will allow for change in this area. And I also know that there are many harms that need healing in the US, and he has the ability to begin that process. But i wish, i HOPE, that his administration will take the stand for gay issues that needs to be taken.
AMEN.

p.s. okay, i just looked it up. it was arkansas, which isn't so much a rectangle, as it is a stinking hell-hole shape.

update...

for those of you who enjoyed/had your blood boiling after reading "bitch?bastard?" about my delightful rapist-loving classmate, guess what: the lengths woman-hating can go have been streeeeeeeetched even further.  

Yesterday, during a (really, really fascinating) lecture on the death penalty, B/B? asked the teacher "why so few women receive the death penalty?"  The teacher explained that statistically, far fewer women enact first degree murders of the type that Texas (which represents at least 1/3 of killings per year) and the other shitty states are willing to convict.  (Note: these states are also way more likely to convict a black person of killing a white one...surprise!)  Anyhow, she? went on to say that she thinks that the reality is that "women are getting off the hook just because they are women" and that "tons" of women kill their children and they don't get executed.  The teacher cautiously mentioned that those child-killing women are mentally ill, and even the U.S. doesn't kill those with extreme/debilitating mental illness.  (on the other hand, almost every person on death row has some mental illness) B/B? seem miffed by this unwillingness to crack down.

helloween

I have the worst time with halloween. This is likely because there is no episode of the West Wing that addresses the holiday. I've looked. I've said I'll go to a halloween party this year, which was my first mistake, and so I now find myself at the yearly heart-pounding crossroads: what the hell am I going to be?
There are many elements about me that cause this deathly fear, not least is how ridiculous a 6 foot tall bumble bee appears; nevertheless, let's examine another of my contentions with el dio de me muerto -- The sluttiness of the costumes. I know this may be a hackneyed topic, but I have recently been made startlingly aware of just how far the skank factor can be taken on halloween. We received an ad for a costume store in the neighborhood, and here are some of the more unique examples of what i saw in the way of women's options: A virtual menagerie of lewdly rendered polyester.
Of course there's the typically slutty: nurse, playboy bunny, devil, etc, and the animal slutty: bunnies, kitties, puppies, butterflies, and something that looks strangely like a skunk. Also, there's the usual professional-looseness: Skanky military woman (ha...yeah right), doctor, chauffer, slutty baseball player (ironically, none of these professions are exactly dominated by women...maybe the cross-dressing adds kink)
But the following are true gems:
Host of historical whores: Cleopatra, Pocahontus, Florence Nightingale, Trojan warrior woman wearing less than Brad Pitt.
The Unbelievably specific skank: bavarian barmaid pre-WWII, vampiress who seems to only drink bunny blood, Gothic-neo-flapper-animagus who turns into a bat.
In the midst of the photo of all these women, there is a man wearing a banana suit. yep.

Anyway, my primary point is, HELP! I need some genuine suggestions. Thanks.

white or left

CJ: You want to lock up everybody with a white sheet?
Toby: Yes, I do! Yes, I do. Who has a problem with that?

I know my faithful reader will hear this story with relatively little shock, taking an "i told you so" posture for the rest of the blog. That's fine, because I get it, i really do, but I was shocked.

So, I'm walking home from a reception at school on Friday evening, feeling pret-ty proud of myself for sticking out a voluntary social event, and not making an ass of myself. Now granted, I abstained from both food and beer solely in an effort to kept myself from spilling, or creating any number of food related disasters that only i could produce. Additionally, I was wearing my favorite gray wool dress and would have been feeling utterly fab had i not, from effort of maintaining a cool, relaxed outward appearance, sweat right through the damn thing. In the end, I had to leave just in order to go out into the frigid cold and dry off.
As I was walking home, delighted with my escapade into the world of people-who-talk-to-each-other-for-fun-and-also-sometimes-leave-the-house-for-same, I decided to check my email. The email that comes to my phone is from my old ACU account because, while i am a sick conspicuous consumer for having a phone with email, i don't actually know how to work any of my fancy belongings.
In an email from Royce Money, esteemed President of my alma matter x 2, i gathered the following:
-Sometime this semester, in a racist demonstration, someone hung a noose in the ACU courtyard.
-ACU has not found or punished this person
-ACU has reacted by sending councilors to speak to classes and chapel.

I am shocked. Speechless (at the time, its been a few days). I know it isn't difficult to believe, because often ACU is a fundamentalist haven for "Christians" who have rejected the apathy of their mothers and fathers, who were content to be secluded from the "world" on that bless'ed hill, and embraced their first amendment right to believe that the snail's pace with which ACU has attempted to diversify is a bridge too far, shouting out like Homer Stokes, friend of the little man, "that's not my culture and he'tage!"
This act insults and offends me.
It insults the good memories I have of ACU -- i met every person i really like there. (I also met my nemeses (plural?) there, and i love having nemeses)
It makes me feel guilty for telling my 8 black students last semester that "things at ACU are getting better" and that "you guys can change the attitudes here". oh, my bad you guys. you should probably get out as fast as you can.
I am concerned that I'll never get a job in the public sector with this burning cross imprinted on my resume.
It offends me that this is just another example of Christians behaving reprehensibly, making me feel bitterer toward religion at large at a time when I think believing in something would be so lovely.

I want Christians to quit with the feckless attempts to reproach hatefulness after the fact, and start teaching the love and peace and justice that are buried under centuries of ambition and aggression. Stop disciplining students for not confining their sex lives to "everything-but", or for being attracted to members of the same sex, or drinking responsibly, and start encouraging them to open their minds, even an inch. "Change the World" in-fucking-deed.

I began with the West Wing quote because I agree with Toby. I know freedom of speech means for everyone, about everything, but i can't help it. Leo tells President Bartlett that his belief in moral imperatives is the most horrifying part of his liberalism. Well, while it may be disturbing to some, and it certainly causes plenty of arguments between myself and Bryce, I think there are moral imperatives. Hateful acts are not okay, and war is not okay, and injustice is not okay. Though i may regret it later, I say, lock 'em up, and to hell with speech. The bastards deserve it.

reason #27 to stay in school...

i've really taken to some of the domestic chores.  when we moved to denver, i decided to be proper granola and hang my clothes out to dry.  It is really quite soothing.

today i asked bryce to put in a load of laundry.  he called upstairs a few minutes later to ask where the laundry detergent was.  geez, i thought, its right there on the washer...how typical of a man to ask that.

i tromped downstairs and pointed at the laundry detergent.  bryce said, no, that's fabric softener.  no, i reply, the fabric softener is the small purple bottle.  the big one is obviously detergent.  i pick it up to read it, and see, in tiny print at the bottom "fabric softener". damn.

turns out, i've been washing our clothes in fabric softener for three months.  awesome. 

i'll stick to law, i suppose. 

Here comes the good part...

i have a confession to make.  I've never seen Hotel Rwanda.  To make matters worse, i have never finished Schindler's List.  and as it stands right now, i shan't watch them. ever.  If you are thinking this is about to be a blog about my white-hooded hatred for oppressed peoples, please read on.  

The driving force that elicit's this confession is the same that will sentence me to 5-10 years of graduate work -- an honest and sincere passion for disenfranchised peoples, and a desire to do something about it.  It isn't the plot of those films that leads me to insist to netflix that i do Not want to see those movies, and stop recommending them to me, dammit. Because netflix knows.  It knows that every time i see President Niballa tell President Bartlet "my people are dying" i burst into tears.  But i cannot bear violence in film.  not anymore.

During my freshman year of college, there was an onslaught of films about war.  Black Hawk Down, We Were Soldiers, Windtalkers...you name it, and i saw it.  I don't think it was my genre of choice at the time, but nevertheless...Some time between 2001-2 and now, I became world's biggest violence wuss, and now Bryce and I won't see a movie that isn't more or less about magic, happiness, and good-natured humor. Tonight I asked Bryce why he thinks we can't abide violence in the movies, and he said that film is the wrong genre.  He doesn't want all of his senses to be exposed to such horrors (hope i'm paraphrasing you okay, boo).  well, we are book people.

I agree with this assessment, but I have a few theories of my own I'd like to throw out:

1. I'm just an ol' softie: not solely in the apparently-built-from-cylindrical-marshmallows sense, either. I've lost any tough exterior I once was able to maintain.  I basically employ one, very mushy, pattern of speech around the house now, my "bear" voice, whom I call "baby bear" often as not, and Bryce now thinks I'm losing my nerve and probably my mind.  This voice is an apt symbol of the wimp within.

2. Naseau: its not easy to stuff [massive] fistfulls of popcorn into one's mouth while watching someone's face being blown off.  I'm from the Cookie-monster school of movie snacking (the old cookie monster, before kids got so fat that he had to start pushing moderation on his viewers and eating an apple between nibbling on a bite-sized cookie...the sellout) 

3. nightmares: see post number two about my desperate need to avoid all that is scary.  And, if you ask Bryce, he will attest to the fact that the things I will not watch before bed, all of which fit under the heading "scary", include movies with battles, bad accents, religious fanaticism, weapons, mean people, bad people, ugly people, monsters (not to be confused with fantastic beasts, with whom i have no quarrel), death, depression, or an even remotely ominous soundtrack. 

4. I'm turning into my mother: Her name is Heather, her nickname is Feather, and not just because of her spindly appearance and the fact that i've knocked her over on more than one occasion with my wild storytelling gesticulations. The only movie she's been known to watch that included violence was The Last of the Mohicans, and you'd countenance violence too for shots of Daniel Day Lewis's naked torso and a good bit of old fashioned romance if you were married to Paul.

This being said, I'd like to proffer a short list of films that are welcome into my west-wing player at night, or really any time. 

1. O Brother Where Art Thou. "i'm the goddamned paterfamilias" = ecstatically happy.

2. Stardust.  If you haven't seen it, or have been passing it up at the movie store because the cover looks like some remake of an 80's Willow-esque tragedy (i know some people like it.  well, i don't like them) then stop passing and just get it.  there's magic, there's romance, there's Robert De Niro playing a delightful cross-dresser. 

3. Stranger than Fiction. so beautifully shot. so delightfully humorous.  maggie gyllenhaal plays a law school dropout who runs a bakery. my heart overfloweth. 

4. When Harry Met Sally: In 1989, the protagonist of a film was able to proposition sex in the first five minutes, then go on to be crass and crude for 85 more minutes, and still win our hearts.  hooray. 

5. Charlie Wilson's War:  some may say, whoa, whatabout the bad accent clause of the nighttime contract-- i say, you haven't lived in Abilene, TX. Charlie Wilson is a treat, and the fact that it is written by Aaron Sorkin (god of West Wing writing) means it is absolutely unmissable.  

All of the aforementioned get better with repeated viewings, allowing me to declare at intervals, and with all the alacrity of President Bartlett viewing Dial M for Murder, "here comes the good part!"

bitch? bastard?

There is a girl in my class who used to be a man.  maybe not physically, but certainly she has some strange mental link...she's channeling a good-ol-boyish misogynation in a way that is so bizarre, so unbelievable, that i am considering turning her over to Mulder (not least because i think he's super hot).  As of this moment, s/he has pissed me off for the last time, and shall suffer the wrath of my blog...damn, that's harsh, i know...

A few weeks ago, the truth began to slip out.  (ha) She stated in class that women can't be held to a reasonable person standard, which sucks for us, because its like 90 damn percent of the law.  "They (and she did say "they", not we.  hmmm...) are illogical", and basically completely addled by their own breasts.  Amusingly, the 49% of our class who are women looked fit to be tied.  Their tubes that is, in order to obtain some logic, and free themselves from the flawed reasoning created by their lady-bits.

  In an act of wild contrast (of the sort women are prone to) s/he has periodically stood up for some "women's" issues, specifically the rights of children. Don't let this assuage you...I'm sure s/he is aware of the possibility that those kids will grow up to be men and hateful wo-men. 

Anyhow, the straw that broke this hearty camel's back, and initiated this in-class posting, was five minutes ago when s/he made a passionate plea for the rights of rapists.  "how can men receive justice under a system that is so willing to convict for rape" (see previous post about truth of this statement)  Poor men, who as of 1983 could grab a woman in a park, rape her, and then if she didn't resist "enough", because, unlike some of us, this woman weighed about 85 lbs, could walk out of court and climb back into their hole. 

Besides this reactionary post, i can only hope that this liberal situs will excoriate this (bitch? bastard?) and will run her? out on a rail. 

Our teacher just ended class by saying, rather pointedly, i believe, that women are harder on rape victims than men, and much less likely to convict a rapist.  "women"...harrumph. 

Shibboleth

As I was riding my bike home from the gym tonight, standing up on the pedals, once again the conquering heroine of the lifecycle, and listening to one of my favorite sigur ros songs, attempting, rather poorly, to sing along (it was 11 pm. i'd never sing in public, but at that hour, i'm sure the neighbor's just thought it was some dog crying), I got out my phone to call Bryce.  This is my nightly routine when Bryce is away. I leave the gym, call Bryce (who lives/works 3 days a week in Nebraska) and then, while on the phone, I proceed to check the entire house for intruders.  He listens patiently as I stoop to look under the bed and the table, open closet doors, and pull back shower curtains, waiting for some lunatic to pop out.  I guess I think when this happens, I'll say, "sorry, no rape/burglary/murder for you tonight because I'm on the phone with my husband", and the thwarted ax murderer will turn tail and run.  

Why the hell do i do this?  I would not describe myself as a fearful individual.  I mean, in other circumstances, I don't conjur images of death and disaster all day.  I typically picture myself impervious to such harms, a privaldge that is jusitified by the fact that I am one half Amazon, and at least a quarter Wolverine (the healing powers, you know...).  Nevertheless, I find that my typically bear-like sleep cycles can be invaded by the sound of a squirrel outside or the faintest gust of wind against the window.  

In my criminal law class, we've just begun a chapter on rape.  Let me summarize what I've learned so far: In our society, which has condoned, and even encouraged, male aggressive behavior, a woman who has been victimized has traditionally had to prove that she used every means available to fight off said attacker, and if there was a telephone in the room and she somehow didn't contrive to excuse herself from the rape-in-progress and call the cops, she is probably lying, or even more likely, invited this action.  In addition, apparently men cannot interpret signs of reticence, and more often find statements like, "no thank you, no, no, no" to be coy demurrers from clever seductress (see Mr. Collins proposal to Elizabeth, Pride and Prejudice).  Oh, and the condescending title "date-rape" is really used to indicate legal suspicion that the woman should have had a few less tequilas.  

Studies indicate that the number of victimized women on college campuses could be as many as 1/2.  (studies vary widely on these numbers because the nature of rape is such that it is much more painful to confess than victimization by any other crime). Maybe this is why my fear has increased over the years.  Now that I've been in college for half my life, it seems that my chances are getting worse.  I don't mean to make light of this, but I do need to be able to sleep tonight.  

Is it possible that men need some kind of Shibboleth, a test that indicates when a woman is telling the truth? Do we really need to start saying, "oh yes, please, I wholeheartedly commit to this excellent prospect" in order to begin creating helpful legal distictions? Is it even feasible that our legal system supports this kind of thinking, making women out to be some kind of sphynx, speaking in riddles that baffle the minds of would-be attackers?  Can we really not hold rapists accountable for speaking a 3 year old's level of english? 

My main question is, how will being a lawyer allow me to allocate justice for the things I most want to change, when the current legal bar has been set so low, i can't even look at it (Leo). 

the voice of the people is the voice of a dog...er, god.

I am beginning this blog after three years and at least two new year's resolutions declaring my intentions to do so. I'd like it to be an accounting of my years in Denver, and, obviously, to create an outlet for my incessant west wing references.  I think Bryce will be relieved.  As I am sure that the only people who will read it will be those who have a legal duty to care about what i think (Bryce, Audrey, Heather), I don't plan to have a purpose...it's just for things i think are funny/absurd and the occasional political/social rant.  I'll begin with some brief vignettes of my life here, which can be summarized thus: Bear, pie, Bryce, school.

School: I was afraid it would be hard for me to make friends at school. I've lost any social skills I may have once had, making my first days of orientation terrifying, and I doubt that my post-depression puffiness and constant air of standoffish-ness was doing much to ingratiate me with my peers.  In addition, this (relatively, i know, i know...) f-ing cold climate has manifested in a sublime pallor that leaves me looking perpetually ill, a fact which led to the following:

Today, as I walked into school, still sweating from my four minute bike ride, swinging a bag that weighed more than Bear, and paler than ever, I conjured an image of how horrifying i must look.  Horrifyingly frightening.  This, combined with my status as the only person in a class of 300ish who went to an evangelical christian school led me to imagine the students scampering out of my wake because, to them, I looked like some sort of bizarre granola-albino (chacos, beatles  tshirt, freshly highlighted white bangs), coming to the law school to mete out some Da Vinci Code-esque retribution on this hub of liberal academia, with my timbuk2 bag full of stones to impose the lord's wrath upon them. 

I know it's a weird image, but it has been making me laugh all day.

An amusing quote from today:

Hillary (in a grocery store): agh, some child is screaming in the next aisle.

Me: that's what happens with kids.  They lure you into thinking they are cute, and just when you might consider having one, they turn around and bite you in the ass.

Hillary: Well, i've decided that it's only the annoying people who have annoying kids.

I suppose its as good a justification as any.