Confessions of a Former TV Addict

Some time around age nine, television supplanted books as my main diversion. I was finished with "The Babysitters' Club," "Sweet Valley High" and "The Secret Garden." In their place was "Thundercats," "Gummi Bears," and "The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air." During summers, I watched "Another World" and "Days of Our Lives" (only the latter soap opera is still on; it's amazing how little has changed).

We didn't have cable, so my options were limited to the five or six over-air channels, but I memorized the programming on each of those stations. I even knew what was playing in Dayton, which was usually staticky, but came in handy when a Reds game was preempting my shows (this was long before I was a hardcore baseball fan).

Through junior high and high school, I wasn't a social creature; rather than my classmates, I hung out with Brenda, Dylan, and the gang from Beverly Hills: 90210 on Wednesday nights. I could easily watch four hours a night, doing my homework during commercials.

Luckily, I weaned myself off of heavy television-viewing during college; now, I mostly watch it streaming, over Netflix (we're currently on the second season of 30 Rock), just a half-hour a day, or Sundays at my grandma's, where we watch the Reds, some cable news, and HGTV.

Sometimes I think about all those lost hours. I could have read a couple hundred novels--or perhaps written two.

W is for Watching

As a child, I was especially fond of corners. On the school playground, where two chain-linked fences met at a 90-degree angle, I crouched and watched—who played with whom?—who teased whom? I catalogued their gestures and their strange and natural ways of speaking. Everything for them seemed so spontaneous, and this fascinated me. I was too shy to join them, but by observing and recording, I shared in their experiences.

This is what watching became for me—a way to participate. Years later, writing serves that same purpose.

P is for Perfect Sand

I thought I'd take the opportunity today to explain the name of my blog (and twitter handle).

On an unusually warm early November day, my best friend and I were playing in her neighbor's sandbox (she had the awesome above-ground pool, swing set, and basketball court, but her neighbors had the sand!) We began filtering the sand, trying to get rid of twigs and rocks and anything else that marred its consistency. We spent hours in that box. (We were also prone to set up museums, obstacle courses, and pen collections). We decided that every November 9th would be "Perfect Sand Day," dedicated to the removal of imperfections in a sand box. I don't remember if we ever celebrated our made-up holiday again.

More than ten years later, I wrote a story (quoted at the top of my blog) in which an eight-year-old character makes "perfect sand" in her own backyard.

Five years after that, when I decided to create a blog to hold my pictures and track my journey as I figure out what I want to do with my life, that name--"perfect sand"--just came back to me. It ties both to my nostalgia for childhood and my writing life. What could be better?

How about you? What led you to choose your handle or blog name?

H is for Home Birth

My brothers and I were born at home. Me, then Zachary, then Jonah. Midwives guided my mom through labor and birth, and our grandparents, a priest, my mom's sister, and maybe more were there for each birth to welcome us to the world. I have vague memories of Jonah's birth - I was four at the time - though the most concrete image from that day is of walking downstairs and finding two-year-old Zach asleep on the couch. It felt dark, like nighttime, though I know my youngest brother was born in the morning. I also know the bed broke when he was born; maybe when I was, too.

We grew up on a rather busy street in Cincinnati, adjacent to a giant cemetery. On the occasions that I drive by the small house, now painted yellow, I wonder about the people who currently live there. Do they still deal with water bugs and the occasional mouse? Have they recarpeted the living room and dining room? (It had been wall-to-wall brown; sometimes I sat on the floor, cross-legged, watching Sesame street, and I'd "trim" the carpet with scissors as if I were mowing the lawn). Have they had bikes stolen? I notice they've removed the chain-link fence that I guess only offered a semblance of security. And do they know that three babies were born there?

Another Wedding...

I've written before about the rather counter-cultural community in which I grew up. We were Catholic, yet championed the rights of gays and lesbians; social justice (at least in my eyes) trumped church doctrine any day, including Sundays. And friendships I established twenty years ago still hold today.

Saturday night I watched one of those friends marry. Cocktails and appetizers outside in the afternoon; buffet dinner at seven; ceremony at dusk. It was a lovely evening, so fitting for my friend, her family, and her (now) husband.

Food, Glorious Food

When I was seven or eight, I started giving up foods left and right. I developed lists in my mind of what I would and would not eat, and you can imagine which list was longer. Some foods I wouldn't eat because they looked weird or smelled weird or had a weird texture; others just because I hadn't eaten them before and didn't want anything unfamiliar in my mouth.

As with my shyness, I look back at this behavior and cringe. My poor parents struggled to find things I would eat; there were weeks where we probably alternated between macaroni & cheese (only Kraft brand) and chicken nuggets and fries. They thought I'd grow out of it, but I was terribly stubborn. It wasn't until college that I became slightly less neurotic, trying other brands of macaroni and cheese, and it was still years later that I began trying other kinds of food, like Indian and Thai cuisines.

I still have my lists, but the one of foods I will eat is longer now. Friday nights, as I sample baked salmon and gazpacho dishes I wouldn't have touched five years ago, I feel a sense of pride. Still, my bathroom scale tells me I need to eat some cheeseburgers and milkshakes, pronto.

Express Yourself (cont.)

The other day I wrote about Malcolm X's experience as he learned to express himself in more than one way. In class, I ask students to write about a time when they had trouble expressing themselves; how did they deal with it?

Me, I was immediately taken back to my first day of fourth grade. Even though I was in the same house as the year before, I had a new bus route. I wasn't supposed to ride the 113 anymore. Unsure of what bus I was supposed to ride--and too shy to ask--I stood, paralyzed, until I was approached by the vice principal.

"Do you know which bus to ride?"

"The 117, I think."

She turned to another teacher: "Does that sound right?" She turned back to me and asked which bus I rode last year.

"The 113."

She ushered me onto the bus, number 113. I saw some familiar faces, but only a couple, and none of the kids who got off at the same stop or in the same neighborhood as me. I had never ridden a bus with all white people before.

I knew I was on the wrong bus, but I didn't know how to say it. Instead, I took my seat. The bus took an unfamiliar path, and I got off at the first stop and began walking.

My shyness never went away. Every day, words choke in my throat. I am unable to say exactly what I want to. Whether standing in front of a room full of students or being introduced to a group of would-be friends, I feel a disconnect between my thoughts and speech.

But I am still able to express myself. The words that don't come out of my mouth come pouring through my arms and fingertips and to the keyboard and onto the screen. With a push of a button, those words are sent across the United States, to Scotland, and to Kenya. I am able to share my thoughts and feelings with a much larger audience.

Simultaneously, a strange thing has happened: the more I write, the less of a disconnect I feel between what I think and what comes out of my mouth. The fear will never go away--in some ways, it drives me!--but saying what I want when I want is a good thing, in whatever medium it takes.

Lies My Mother Told Me

When I was a child, during the summer I frequently heard that unmistakable music of the ice cream truck. But I wasn't allowed to just grab change I'd saved up and run outside to buy a 60 cent Popsicle. I needed permission. My mom, though, wasn't a fan of saying "no." Instead, she'd say, "Oh that's not the ice cream truck. That's just the music truck."

"The music truck?"

She explained that there were, indeed, two trucks: the ice cream truck that slowly drove around the neighborhood, selling Popsicles, ice cream bars, and orange creamsicles; and the less-familiar music truck. Its job was to fill the air with the innocuous melody of "Do Your Ears Hang Low?"

Ten or so years later I said to her, "I haven't seen any music trucks in a while. Do they still have them?" Of course, the truth came out. To this day, though, whenever I hear "Do Your Ears Hang Low," I think of that phantom music truck.

I was smart but gullible, a description that probably still holds true.

Communities

Sometimes life throws us things that make us question the justice of the world.

I'm not religious; I'm not even spiritual. But I tend to believe that there's an order to the universe, that things even out. Despite so much evidence to the contrary, I tend to think good things ultimately happen to good people.

When a lovely, positive, vibrant 27-year old is losing her battle with cancer, I'm reminded that this world can be cruel and random. That horrible things can happen to the best people and the best families.

We were part of a rather counter-cultural Catholic church in the 80s and 90s. I knew nothing of the orthodoxy and intolerance that continue to plague more traditional Catholic churches, because ours was accepting of differences, more concerned with issues of peace and justice than what people did behind closed doors. The church's first members were young, in their late teens and early twenties. They got married, had kids (I was one of those kids), and thus a generation was born into this caring and intimate environment. We all lived in the same neighborhood as the church. We walked there and to each other's houses for sleepovers and pool parties. Many of us went to the same schools and rode the same buses.

By the early-to-mid-90s, many of the members who'd married had divorced (my parents included), and many had moved away from the neighborhood. Many of us stopped going to the church (the priest who'd helped to start it had long since moved out West) and found somewhere (or nowhere) else to go. Now, members of that first generation of kids are in their mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Many of the parents are remarried, graying. And we're all tolerant, open, and concerned with peace. Justice.

We met today at Spring Grove Cemetery - that large and lovely place I grew up across the street from, celebrated my First Communion in, and learned how to drive a stick in - to honor Jenna. About one hundred of us gathered near the entrance, slowly recognizing each other and sharing hugs and tears. For the next hour and a half, we walked quietly through the cemetery, umbrellas open, thinking, reflecting, crying, and praying. Spring Grove has always represented peace, beauty, and community much more than death. It was a gray, rainy day that seemed appropriate for the circumstances.

I have trouble holding grudges nowadays. I reserve my anger for deceit, injustice, and intolerance, and only towards those I don't know personally. For everyone else, especially, today, Jenna and her family, I have only love and hope that somehow, somewhere, the world restores order.

No Worries, Mate

When I was a child, my favorite phrase was "I'm bored." I used it to signal my dissatisfaction with whatever activity or people surrounded me. And I usually uttered to my mother, who always, no matter how many times I'd said it, had a new suggestion: call a friend, read a book, draw a picture, etc. If I'd had the word then, I probably would have said, "I'm experiencing ennui," just to be extra annoying. Despite myriad options, I always had trouble filling empty space.

I don't have trouble filling that space anymore. This is mostly a good thing. More Sydney pictures here. Skyrail pics from Kuranda (near Cairns) here. A few pics from the Blue Mountains here. I've been keeping up with the developments on health care, but it's been moving so quickly that any comment I make about it seems moot within a couple days.

President Obama spoke at Fort Hood yesterday, giving, I think, his best speech since inauguration. It was a moving tribute to those that lost their lives on American soil last week, as well as to those who continue to serve and sacrifice in wars for which "there is not always a simple ceremony that signals our troops' success -- no surrender papers to be signed, or capital to be claimed." I'll surely think of them today, Veterans Day.

Tale of Two Worlds

I like to think that I came to my politics on my own, that I studied all sides and points of view and came to the conclusion that, yes, I am a democrat, I believe in a strong federal government, and I believe that government has a responsibility to help the least among us.

But my politics were formed long before I could study the issues and articulate my own ideology. Some of my earliest memories are of protests. I never heard the word "Reagan" or "Republican" without some disparaging remark from my mother. The second wedding I ever attended was between two women. It wasn't one thing; it was lots of things. I don't know how I could have been brought up how I was and become anything but a bleeding-heart liberal.

While Bush was president (for all but a couple years of my adult life), I got used to being a minority party. I could make fun of the president (haha "nuke-yoo-ler") and go to protests (boo "No Child Left Behind," boo Anti-Choice, boo Iraq invasion) and relish the frustration and freedom that comes from not being in charge. As I've said before, it's much easier to tear something apart than it is to solve or build.

But now we're in charge. We have an intellectual, progressive president who reads and writes for pleasure. We swept the house and senate to have majorities in both. We have a public who, despite the noise on cable, supports meaningful health care reform. And yet there seems to be two entirely different conversations going on, neither of which involves most Americans. The first is among the faction that has decided that President Obama is either illegitimate or a stone's throw away from a fascist, communist dictator. This group is talking about death panels and rationing and ACORN. Another conversation is going on more privately between lawmakers and the insurance industry. Democrats and Republicans alike seem to be holding legislation hostage at the request of lobbyists.

But most of us, we're not part of this conversation. We are seeing budgets slashed, our friends laid off, and others struggling to get by. We are educated, we're engaged, but the more shut out of the process we are--candidate Obama wanted these health care debates to be broadcast in the open, live, on C-Span--the more disenfranchised we feel.

Winning cures all ills, though; the Bengals have won two in a row, so no one is going to complain about lack of throws his way. Once health care goes through, unemployment drops, and tangible signs of an economic recovery appear, the loony fringe may recede.

I think of a quote I read from one of Al Gore's books: "The opposite of reason is fear." So many people are (wrongfully, in my opinion) fearful, today. They seem to see no common ground. While I'd love for Obama to dictate what should (and should not) be done to reform health care, I think that might only increase fear and resentment as well as decrease reason and engagement. Slow as this is, process is important.

And so here I am again, faced with the task of grading revisions and thinking of new and better ways to make Othello interesting and relevant to nursing students, instead doing my own writing. It's a breath of fresh air to me, sitting here on my couch, my laptop in front of me and my space heater aimed directly at me, typing my own words instead of figuring out numerical scores for creative pieces. (This late in the quarter, I'm tempted to use smilies and "Way to Go!" stickers.) And with that, back to work I go.

Progressive building blocks

I find myself trying to do multiple things at once. I'm grading papers while planning while checking back in my book to make sure that, yes, commas do indeed go there. I'm eating while checking my email while taking a silly quiz on facebook. Everything is on my floor because I'm doing everything while accomplishing nothing (at least, accomplishing nothing with any kind of efficiency).

From first until the sixth grade, I attended a public Montessori school (I attended a separate, private one for preschool and kindergarten). Classrooms were open; that is, desks weren't the first thing you'd notice when entering the room. And often, the only border between classrooms were shelves. Instead of sitting at our desks each day, we completed tasks. We retrieved a carpet square, found a spot somewhere in the room, and lay it out. We took our material, sat down at our square, and completed the task. Then we returned the material to its spot on the shelf and put away our carpet square. One task at a time, from beginning to end. We could work as slowly or quickly as we wanted because, when we were finished, we could find something else to do.

This kind of school and education was perfect for me. It allowed me to be independent (which I crave) and to explore my interests. I didn't have to wait for the teacher to explain, again, some concept that I already understood. Instead, the teacher could spend extra time, individually, with that student. It also focused my attention on the task at hand.

As I scatter my attention, now, in a million different directions, I want to freeze time; I want to stop, put everything away, and then pull out a carpet square.

The Importance of Childhood Memories

Only an adult perspective, twenty years later, has taught me that a few of my family’s traditions were less than normal.

Take, for example, our October trips to the cemetery to go “buckeye hunting.” A couple weeks before each Halloween, my mom, my brothers, and I went across the street to Spring Grove Cemetery and Arboretum, plastic bags in tow, and mapped out our path to the five “best” buckeye trees.

When we got to our first tree, we raced around with our backs hunched, examining the grass for those smooth, brown nuts. If we were too late, the buckeyes would be gnawed and rotted. If we were too early, most of the buckeyes would still be in the trees. Luckily, we were ready for those high-up buckeyes: with the right amount of force, a shoe could knock down a buckeye, still in its shell. My brothers and I took turns throwing our shoes into the tree, hoping to retrieve a perfectly intact buckeye. More than once, a shoe got stuck among the branches, and it took another deft toss to knock the shoe down. By the time we left the fifth tree, our bags were heavy and full.

Later, I’d bring my sack of buckeyes to school for show-and-tell. I’d never thought about the sight we must have been, three kids and their mom, shoeless, running around a graveyard.