Midterm exams cut into instructional time this this month. So I only collected two notable comments. But what I lack in quantity, I make up for in terms of quality. The weather may be cold, but my students are still quick to the mark. Both of these remarks made me laugh out loud. Snorting may have occurred.
From a history discussion of the brief independent republic period of the Lone Star state:
"Texas has a huge advantage over other states: you can buy beer and bullets at the same store."
I'm not sure that I would call this an advantage, but I do know it to be true.
And in AP Government, as our discussion of the legal right to privacy wound down:
"We were promised sodomy after break."
I hasten to note, they were promised only an explanation of how some states' sodomy laws turned out to violate the Constitution. And that day, when class ended and the next class (frosh boys) strolled in, I erased the chalkboard with a lightening fast speed. It seemed for the best.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
Pretty Packages
A few weeks ago, my sister had a birthday. I won't say how old she is (my computer doesn't have numbers that high anyway), but pictured below are the packages JT and I sent her. I decided to treat her birthday present as the birthday version of a Christmas stocking and I was really quite pleased with how the project turned out.
I like wrapping gifts. JT and I have already started a project to make tiny homemade Valentine matchbox packages to share with his classmates at school. Basically, it's just an excuse to visit craft stores to admire the paper, ribbons, and stickers; not to mention bring some of those things home to live with us. I've a weakness for such things. And having a few creative projects to work on will tide me over until I can get to work in the garden.
Friday, January 29, 2010
And I'm the Grown Up in the Room?
This morning I got to work and had a sudden (and frightening) concern: had I put on deodorant for the day? I honestly can't remember if I did. On the one hand, with temps forecast to be in the low 20s for the high, it's unlikely that I will work up a sweat and need the underarm protection. On the other hand, my own over-developed sense of smell means that if there has been a deodorant fail in my personal grooming, I will know. And I will be utterly creeped out by myself.
And it's not as if I don't have actual concerns to which I should attend. It's only the third day of the new semester and I'm already behind in AP Government. There are lessons to be organized and quizzes to be graded. In sum, the deodorant issue (which I can't fix at this point) should really take a back seat to other priorities.
And yet.
I am consoling myself with the following thought: I don't remember putting on my underwear this morning, either. But I've just checked and it seems that I did. I'm going to have to hope for the best on the under-arm front.
And it's not as if I don't have actual concerns to which I should attend. It's only the third day of the new semester and I'm already behind in AP Government. There are lessons to be organized and quizzes to be graded. In sum, the deodorant issue (which I can't fix at this point) should really take a back seat to other priorities.
And yet.
I am consoling myself with the following thought: I don't remember putting on my underwear this morning, either. But I've just checked and it seems that I did. I'm going to have to hope for the best on the under-arm front.
Wednesday, January 27, 2010
Aerial Assault
I've noted in the past that my boy wasn't much of a napper. If you wanted JT to nap, then you had to be prepared to lie down with him; this method was also employed at night time when the long nap was on a Mama's agenda.
I have vivid memories of laying down in bed with him (yes, I was a co-sleeper.....and you can zip it with your objections because it worked just fine for me) with my eyes strategically closed, playing possum. When he was old enough to crawl, he'd move in on my eyes-closed face, nose-to-nose, with his large brown eyes open-wide. In that moment, if you opened your eyes you'd see the bright shiny eyes of a very-awake baby. And then the sleep boat was sunk, as he gleefully hoped for just one more story. Or song. Or midnight cocktail. To be honest, the view of that nose-to-nose eyes-open look was pretty cute, as was the joyous baby laugh that followed my open eyes.
These days, JT is willing to get into bed and go to sleep and so my playing possum days have ended. But he still likes the occasional nose-to-nose contact. When he lines up his nose with mine and our eyes are so close, it's a view from the past; the same view that it was when he was just a babine. And it's sweet, reminding me of a time that seems like so long ago.
Last week, as I was reading to JT, we got to a sad part of the story and my voice faltered. Quick as a wink, he turned in my direction and lined up his nose with mine. And as the bright shiny brown eyes closed in, and I smiled he said, "The aerial assault is a success. I repeat: aerial assault success."
One look at those dark, shiny eyes and I was charmed, of course. I believe that was the intention.
I have vivid memories of laying down in bed with him (yes, I was a co-sleeper.....and you can zip it with your objections because it worked just fine for me) with my eyes strategically closed, playing possum. When he was old enough to crawl, he'd move in on my eyes-closed face, nose-to-nose, with his large brown eyes open-wide. In that moment, if you opened your eyes you'd see the bright shiny eyes of a very-awake baby. And then the sleep boat was sunk, as he gleefully hoped for just one more story. Or song. Or midnight cocktail. To be honest, the view of that nose-to-nose eyes-open look was pretty cute, as was the joyous baby laugh that followed my open eyes.
These days, JT is willing to get into bed and go to sleep and so my playing possum days have ended. But he still likes the occasional nose-to-nose contact. When he lines up his nose with mine and our eyes are so close, it's a view from the past; the same view that it was when he was just a babine. And it's sweet, reminding me of a time that seems like so long ago.
Last week, as I was reading to JT, we got to a sad part of the story and my voice faltered. Quick as a wink, he turned in my direction and lined up his nose with mine. And as the bright shiny brown eyes closed in, and I smiled he said, "The aerial assault is a success. I repeat: aerial assault success."
One look at those dark, shiny eyes and I was charmed, of course. I believe that was the intention.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Government in Action
Come June, the Sassafras Family is headed to Alaska and Canada. Our brief out-of-country sojourn (hint: Canada is actually a foreign nation) requires that we bring passports. JT and I had Monday off from school and so we set off that afternoon to secure the proper government papers.
When I arrived at the local post office, I was informed by Sam the Postal Worker that I would need to make an appointment to apply for a passport. Since this fact had not been conveyed in my earlier phone call to the post office to inquire about the process, I was not amused. But I can roll with the punches, so in my most courteous voice, I said to Sam, "Okay, then. I'd like to make an appointment for a passport, please."
He informed me that I would have to call a particular phone number in order to make an appointment and then he informed me that I couldn't apply for JT's passport at that moment anyway, because he'd need his parent's signatures in order to do so. I said, "I am his mother." And Sam said, "But he needs his father's signature also."
Now at this point, the post office was empty but for me and JT, Sam (the helpful Postal Worker), another postal worker sitting behind the desk (let's call him Desk Jockey Bob), and a third postal worker, also at the counter (we'll call her Counter Sue). I was still hopeful that they might help me out this very day. So I told Sam, "He doesn't have a father."
And then Sam the Postal Worker said, "Why, I've never heard of such a thing," and in the silence that followed Sam's incredulity he had a long look at JT's Nebraska-issued birth certificate, searching in vain for an entry on the birth father line. He looked at the birth certificate, he looked at me, he looked at JT, and then he looked again at that empty line on the birth certificate and declared a second time, "Why, I've never heard of such a thing."
And so I patiently explained that JT's "father" was a sperm donor. At which point Sam the Postal Worker slid the birth certificate and application back in my direction and brusquely announced, "That's none of my business. You need to call for an appointment."
We retreated a few steps, I set my paperwork on the counter, pulled out my cell phone, and called the number to schedule an appointment. I could hear the phone ring just beyond the counter and then I watched as Desk Jockey Bob answered the phone. "I'd like to make an appointment for a passport application, please," I told Bob. He put me on hold for a few minutes and then came back on the line saying, "Okay. When would you like to come in?"
I answered with my keen grasp of the obvious, "Well I'm here now. Can I do it now?"
"No," Bob the Desk Jockey explained, "we only do the appointments before 2 pm."
It was 2:30.
"You'll have to come in later this week," Bob said.
Later this week, of course, JT and I expect to be at school until 3 pm. I explained this to Bob. He advised me to come in on Saturday. Sensing that I was about to lose my cool, I told Bob that I would call back later for an appointment and I hung up my phone. As I collected my paperwork and my fatherless-child, Counter Sue, the witness to this exercise in futility, told me, "In Town X, there is a walk-in passport office." And then she told me exactly where the building was located. I thanked her and left.
Less than 15 minutes later, JT and I were at the Town X passport office. There, a friendly and very capable state of New Jersey bureaucrat named Cheryl collected my paperwork, looked at JT's birth certificate, briskly wrote N/A on the passport application line for father, took my checks (one for the federal government and one for the county.....passport processors make $25 for each application they file), and thanked me for my business. I was out the door in 5 minutes.
Let's hope that the nameless federal bureaucrat who receives our paperwork is more in the model of Efficiency Cheryl and not Postal Worker Bob. I worry.
When I arrived at the local post office, I was informed by Sam the Postal Worker that I would need to make an appointment to apply for a passport. Since this fact had not been conveyed in my earlier phone call to the post office to inquire about the process, I was not amused. But I can roll with the punches, so in my most courteous voice, I said to Sam, "Okay, then. I'd like to make an appointment for a passport, please."
He informed me that I would have to call a particular phone number in order to make an appointment and then he informed me that I couldn't apply for JT's passport at that moment anyway, because he'd need his parent's signatures in order to do so. I said, "I am his mother." And Sam said, "But he needs his father's signature also."
Now at this point, the post office was empty but for me and JT, Sam (the helpful Postal Worker), another postal worker sitting behind the desk (let's call him Desk Jockey Bob), and a third postal worker, also at the counter (we'll call her Counter Sue). I was still hopeful that they might help me out this very day. So I told Sam, "He doesn't have a father."
And then Sam the Postal Worker said, "Why, I've never heard of such a thing," and in the silence that followed Sam's incredulity he had a long look at JT's Nebraska-issued birth certificate, searching in vain for an entry on the birth father line. He looked at the birth certificate, he looked at me, he looked at JT, and then he looked again at that empty line on the birth certificate and declared a second time, "Why, I've never heard of such a thing."
And so I patiently explained that JT's "father" was a sperm donor. At which point Sam the Postal Worker slid the birth certificate and application back in my direction and brusquely announced, "That's none of my business. You need to call for an appointment."
We retreated a few steps, I set my paperwork on the counter, pulled out my cell phone, and called the number to schedule an appointment. I could hear the phone ring just beyond the counter and then I watched as Desk Jockey Bob answered the phone. "I'd like to make an appointment for a passport application, please," I told Bob. He put me on hold for a few minutes and then came back on the line saying, "Okay. When would you like to come in?"
I answered with my keen grasp of the obvious, "Well I'm here now. Can I do it now?"
"No," Bob the Desk Jockey explained, "we only do the appointments before 2 pm."
It was 2:30.
"You'll have to come in later this week," Bob said.
Later this week, of course, JT and I expect to be at school until 3 pm. I explained this to Bob. He advised me to come in on Saturday. Sensing that I was about to lose my cool, I told Bob that I would call back later for an appointment and I hung up my phone. As I collected my paperwork and my fatherless-child, Counter Sue, the witness to this exercise in futility, told me, "In Town X, there is a walk-in passport office." And then she told me exactly where the building was located. I thanked her and left.
Less than 15 minutes later, JT and I were at the Town X passport office. There, a friendly and very capable state of New Jersey bureaucrat named Cheryl collected my paperwork, looked at JT's birth certificate, briskly wrote N/A on the passport application line for father, took my checks (one for the federal government and one for the county.....passport processors make $25 for each application they file), and thanked me for my business. I was out the door in 5 minutes.
Let's hope that the nameless federal bureaucrat who receives our paperwork is more in the model of Efficiency Cheryl and not Postal Worker Bob. I worry.
Monday, January 25, 2010
In Which JT Deals Patriarchy a Blow
I was raised in a sports-viewing home and JT is suffering the same fate. It started four years ago, when he was just 6 and became obsessed with the winter Olympics. That year, he put on his sneakers and slid up and down the icy front side walk, pretending that Apollo Ono couldn't keep up with him.
Since then, we've marked the passage of time by the sports calendar. January features football bowl games and playoffs and as those games wind down, the basketball season cranks up. March brings the madness and is followed by baseball's long summer season. That yields to fall and football weekends. And soon enough, it all starts again.
As it happens, I've long been a fan of women's basketball. Though I got cut from the team in the 5th grade (true story), I still like to watch and when living in Nashville I taught myself how to shoot pretty reliably. I've shared my enthusiasm for playing and watching with JT. I've taken him to women's games at Rutgers University; we watch games on the television. I'm a University of Tennessee fan and so is JT. He remembers player names and stats with the relentless enthusiasm of a true fan. He watches men's and women's basketball with equal enthusiasm, with no sense that the games or the players should be distinguished by gender. I suppose this the is the result of growing up in the home of a feminist mama; to be honest, I've not given it much thought. But last week I had cause to reflect.
Last Thursday evening, the UT Lady Vols were scheduled to play the University of Georgia. Both teams were highly ranked and JT tuned in to watch the game. But ESPN was showing men's games on both of their channels. And as a simmering young man settled in to watch Indiana University play Seton Hall, he got worked up about the injustice of it all.
"UT is ranked #3," he exclaimed. "And Georgia is #5. Indiana and Seton Hall? Whatever. I have to watch this game instead of Pat Summit? Ridiculous." I expected that the ranting would wind down and I could return to grading exams while we watched the game that was available.
But I was wrong and the boy's indignation only grew. Finally, I realized that it was time to explain the economics of sport and gender to JT. So I broached a discussion about said issues. I explained that the women's game isn't as popular as the men's game; that women's professional opportunities in sports aren't nearly the same as men's. I even explained that some people think girls aren't as good as boys. He greeted this news with fierce defense of the women's game and the smarts of girls. "That's ridiculous, Mama," he announced. "Girls can do anything boys can do." And then he named a litany of the women he admired: Hillary Clinton, Candace Parker, Pat Summit, Vivian Stringer, the principal of his school and particularly feisty Junior basketball player also at our school.
They say that men become feminists when they become the father of a daughter. I suppose that's often true. But there's much to be said of little boys who are feminists from the outset, raised by hard-working, tough mamas who go out and do what needs to be done, in the process teaching their boys to respect the accomplishments of girls and women everywhere.
Since then, we've marked the passage of time by the sports calendar. January features football bowl games and playoffs and as those games wind down, the basketball season cranks up. March brings the madness and is followed by baseball's long summer season. That yields to fall and football weekends. And soon enough, it all starts again.
As it happens, I've long been a fan of women's basketball. Though I got cut from the team in the 5th grade (true story), I still like to watch and when living in Nashville I taught myself how to shoot pretty reliably. I've shared my enthusiasm for playing and watching with JT. I've taken him to women's games at Rutgers University; we watch games on the television. I'm a University of Tennessee fan and so is JT. He remembers player names and stats with the relentless enthusiasm of a true fan. He watches men's and women's basketball with equal enthusiasm, with no sense that the games or the players should be distinguished by gender. I suppose this the is the result of growing up in the home of a feminist mama; to be honest, I've not given it much thought. But last week I had cause to reflect.
Last Thursday evening, the UT Lady Vols were scheduled to play the University of Georgia. Both teams were highly ranked and JT tuned in to watch the game. But ESPN was showing men's games on both of their channels. And as a simmering young man settled in to watch Indiana University play Seton Hall, he got worked up about the injustice of it all.
"UT is ranked #3," he exclaimed. "And Georgia is #5. Indiana and Seton Hall? Whatever. I have to watch this game instead of Pat Summit? Ridiculous." I expected that the ranting would wind down and I could return to grading exams while we watched the game that was available.
But I was wrong and the boy's indignation only grew. Finally, I realized that it was time to explain the economics of sport and gender to JT. So I broached a discussion about said issues. I explained that the women's game isn't as popular as the men's game; that women's professional opportunities in sports aren't nearly the same as men's. I even explained that some people think girls aren't as good as boys. He greeted this news with fierce defense of the women's game and the smarts of girls. "That's ridiculous, Mama," he announced. "Girls can do anything boys can do." And then he named a litany of the women he admired: Hillary Clinton, Candace Parker, Pat Summit, Vivian Stringer, the principal of his school and particularly feisty Junior basketball player also at our school.
They say that men become feminists when they become the father of a daughter. I suppose that's often true. But there's much to be said of little boys who are feminists from the outset, raised by hard-working, tough mamas who go out and do what needs to be done, in the process teaching their boys to respect the accomplishments of girls and women everywhere.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
Smoothie Saturday
Of late, I have taken to posting a recipe on Friday. Not every Friday, just some Fridays. But yesterday I was buried in an avalanche of exams to grade and I've spent most of January buried under an avalanche of sinus infection (yes, that's gross, I realize, but facts are facts and you've been warned of that future posting). The exams are graded, the infection seems to be in retreat (for good, I dearly hope) and so I am declaring today Smoothie Saturday.
For Christmas, I received a hand-held stick blender. I envisioned making many blended soups sans the tense excitement of having to pour boiling hot soup from my soup pot to my blender. And I did set to work on those soups (recipes in the the month ahead, I promise). But I was also diverted by the prospect of easy-prep, easy-clean-up milkshakes. So JT and I ran through gallons of ice cream stirring up yummy milk shakes.
These were tasty but I wouldn't say they were healthy, per se, and the amount of time my new milkshake diet would require on the elliptical was prohibitive. So last weekend I set to work on the creation of smoothies. With my shiny new stick blender, a smoothie comes together easy-peasy. And, lo, a smoothie can induce a certain young man to eat fruit. It's a smoothie miracle.
Today's recipe is so basic that the cats can make it for themselves while I am away. It will make two cups of smoothie, plenty for an afternoon treat or morning breakfast. I have even successfully passed it off as dessert.
1 cup frozen blueberries
1/2 cup vanilla yogurt (I use Stonyfields organic, which can be bought by the bucket)
1/2 cup milk
My blender came with a handy 2 cup measuring cup and I use that for the smoothies. You can use most anything, though I find a cylindrical shape is best. Put the blueberries in first and then the yogurt and the milk.
Then blend.
It takes less than a minute and then you're in the pink (well, in this case, you're in the purple).
Your tummy and your nine year old will thank you. One warning: you must brush your teeth after drinking it, otherwise tiny bits of dark blueberry will adhere to your teeth, giving your mouth the look of a smile filled with an expanse of partially rotting teeth. JT finds this quite handy for playing pirate, but I feel it detracts from my appearance, sketchy though I often am.
For Christmas, I received a hand-held stick blender. I envisioned making many blended soups sans the tense excitement of having to pour boiling hot soup from my soup pot to my blender. And I did set to work on those soups (recipes in the the month ahead, I promise). But I was also diverted by the prospect of easy-prep, easy-clean-up milkshakes. So JT and I ran through gallons of ice cream stirring up yummy milk shakes.
These were tasty but I wouldn't say they were healthy, per se, and the amount of time my new milkshake diet would require on the elliptical was prohibitive. So last weekend I set to work on the creation of smoothies. With my shiny new stick blender, a smoothie comes together easy-peasy. And, lo, a smoothie can induce a certain young man to eat fruit. It's a smoothie miracle.
Today's recipe is so basic that the cats can make it for themselves while I am away. It will make two cups of smoothie, plenty for an afternoon treat or morning breakfast. I have even successfully passed it off as dessert.
1/2 cup vanilla yogurt (I use Stonyfields organic, which can be bought by the bucket)
1/2 cup milk
My blender came with a handy 2 cup measuring cup and I use that for the smoothies. You can use most anything, though I find a cylindrical shape is best. Put the blueberries in first and then the yogurt and the milk.
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Mass Confusion
Yesterday's victory for Massachusetts Republican Senate candidate Scott Brown has folks wringing their hands, trying to make sense of the senseless. In the months since Ted Kennedy died, leaving his seat vacant, the general view was that of course the Democrats would retain this seat and with it their 60 seat majority in the Senate.
But politics is never an "of course" business and the Martha Coakley campaign, not to mention the national Democrats aiding her effort, should have known better. And that's water under the bridge as of today, now that Scott Brown is the Senator-elect for the state of Massachusetts.
Brown's admission to the Senate cloakroom will not give the GOP a majority in the Senate. It will give them 41 seats to the Democrat's 59 seat majority, a number that looks like a minority to every 4th grader in America. But the 4th graders among us (not to mention the rest of the nation) don't understand the nonsense that is the filibuster.
For the better part of the last year, the Republicans have been playing filibuster possum, threatening to filibuster nearly every Democratic-sponsored initiative in the Senate. The idea of a prospective filibuster is for the minority party to thrown down and stop business in the Senate, thus ensuring that the majority party will negotiate and that the minority party has a real effect on legislation. Historically, the filibuster is an infrequently-used tactic. But not these days, when the GOP threatens to filibuster everything in the Senate. Moreover, the Republicans haven't just been playing filibuster bingo to ensure that a few of their ideas get included in the Democratic legislation. They've been playing filibuster with one goal: total obstruction, inspired by their the hope that the Obama Administration will fail in it efforts to right the ship of state and move us out of this recession.
The mainstream media hasn't called their bluff. And, frankly, neither has the Democratic leadership in the Senate. And now Harry Reid and company are reaping the reward. One can only hope that our dysfunctional Senate, dysfunctional at the whim of a Republican minority, will now attract the attention (and ire...is it too much to hope for ire?) of the news media and the nation.
It's one thing for Republicans to expect their ideas to be included in legislation. They do have 41 seats in the Senate and they do represent a lot of folks (although, ahem, a minority lot of folks). But it is quite another to offer no ideas at all and then sit back and hold our Congress hostage at a time when our nation most needs action. The GOP's win-at-all-cost strategy may succeed. But our nation will lose.
But politics is never an "of course" business and the Martha Coakley campaign, not to mention the national Democrats aiding her effort, should have known better. And that's water under the bridge as of today, now that Scott Brown is the Senator-elect for the state of Massachusetts.
Brown's admission to the Senate cloakroom will not give the GOP a majority in the Senate. It will give them 41 seats to the Democrat's 59 seat majority, a number that looks like a minority to every 4th grader in America. But the 4th graders among us (not to mention the rest of the nation) don't understand the nonsense that is the filibuster.
For the better part of the last year, the Republicans have been playing filibuster possum, threatening to filibuster nearly every Democratic-sponsored initiative in the Senate. The idea of a prospective filibuster is for the minority party to thrown down and stop business in the Senate, thus ensuring that the majority party will negotiate and that the minority party has a real effect on legislation. Historically, the filibuster is an infrequently-used tactic. But not these days, when the GOP threatens to filibuster everything in the Senate. Moreover, the Republicans haven't just been playing filibuster bingo to ensure that a few of their ideas get included in the Democratic legislation. They've been playing filibuster with one goal: total obstruction, inspired by their the hope that the Obama Administration will fail in it efforts to right the ship of state and move us out of this recession.
The mainstream media hasn't called their bluff. And, frankly, neither has the Democratic leadership in the Senate. And now Harry Reid and company are reaping the reward. One can only hope that our dysfunctional Senate, dysfunctional at the whim of a Republican minority, will now attract the attention (and ire...is it too much to hope for ire?) of the news media and the nation.
It's one thing for Republicans to expect their ideas to be included in legislation. They do have 41 seats in the Senate and they do represent a lot of folks (although, ahem, a minority lot of folks). But it is quite another to offer no ideas at all and then sit back and hold our Congress hostage at a time when our nation most needs action. The GOP's win-at-all-cost strategy may succeed. But our nation will lose.
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Lucky
Listening to NPR on Friday night as we drove home after going out for supper, JT and I heard some stories about the devastation in Haiti. We talked about how awful and scary it must be to live in Haiti right now. I explained that when an earthquake of this magnitude occurred in San Francisco in 1989 less than 75 people died. I did this so that he would understand that what happened in Haiti wasn't just the bad luck of living someplace that is earthquake-prone but was much more about the bad luck that lands a nation into a circumstance and cycle of devastating poverty.
In some respects, understanding poverty is an awfully complicated task; more than the average Nobel Laureate can understand let alone a sassy 4th grader in New Jersey. But JT is nearly 10 and that's plenty old enough to understand how lucky he is to have a comfortable home with a warm bed and a steady supply of food, love, and books. That these are things he and I are able to consider essential and not luxuries is part of the lucky lives we lead. All of us in the developed world should understand that.
And so Friday night, as we looked at the map of Haiti and at some pictures of the devastation, we talked about how lucky we are and we listened to some more NPR stories about the many organizations trying to bring relief and supplies to people in Haiti. I showed him this website for Partners in Health, an organization that was already at work in Haiti, and to whom I had already donated money. I wanted him to understand that we could do more than understand the tragedy. In our own small way, we could help.
And then JT did something that fair took my breath away. He pulled his wallet out of the drawer where he keeps it, emptied the contents of wrinkled bills and change onto the table and announced that he wanted to help. "Give them all of my money, please, Mama," he said. And that's exactly what we did. We decided that JT's donation would go to the UNICEF fund for children in Haiti.
As I tucked him into bed on Friday night, I told him again how proud I am of his wisdom and very kind heart. He sleepily nodded, and then folded his favorite blanket under his head; safe and warm, so very comfortable and so very, very lucky.
In some respects, understanding poverty is an awfully complicated task; more than the average Nobel Laureate can understand let alone a sassy 4th grader in New Jersey. But JT is nearly 10 and that's plenty old enough to understand how lucky he is to have a comfortable home with a warm bed and a steady supply of food, love, and books. That these are things he and I are able to consider essential and not luxuries is part of the lucky lives we lead. All of us in the developed world should understand that.
And so Friday night, as we looked at the map of Haiti and at some pictures of the devastation, we talked about how lucky we are and we listened to some more NPR stories about the many organizations trying to bring relief and supplies to people in Haiti. I showed him this website for Partners in Health, an organization that was already at work in Haiti, and to whom I had already donated money. I wanted him to understand that we could do more than understand the tragedy. In our own small way, we could help.
And then JT did something that fair took my breath away. He pulled his wallet out of the drawer where he keeps it, emptied the contents of wrinkled bills and change onto the table and announced that he wanted to help. "Give them all of my money, please, Mama," he said. And that's exactly what we did. We decided that JT's donation would go to the UNICEF fund for children in Haiti.
As I tucked him into bed on Friday night, I told him again how proud I am of his wisdom and very kind heart. He sleepily nodded, and then folded his favorite blanket under his head; safe and warm, so very comfortable and so very, very lucky.
Saturday, January 16, 2010
Doing My Part
The web abounds with information about reliable organizations collecting resources to help the people of Haiti. But last night my friend N sent me a link to a MoveOn.org petition that I hadn't seen before. MoveOn is requesting that credit card companies forgo their share of the transaction fees generated when people use their credit card to make a donation to charitable organizations helping out the people of Haiti. It will take less than a minute to sign the petition. The folks at MoveOn are organized and they are loud. If you just sign, they'll do the rest of the work.
Of course I signed. And then added a short statement to be shared with credit card company CEOs. My statement reads: "I appreciate the ease that your card brings to my life. I understand that you are in it to make money and most of the time, I'm okay with that. But making money off of other people's terrible destruction is not okay. Surely your mama taught you that? Do the right thing. Please."
The petition is here. I hope that y'all will join me in signing it.
Of course I signed. And then added a short statement to be shared with credit card company CEOs. My statement reads: "I appreciate the ease that your card brings to my life. I understand that you are in it to make money and most of the time, I'm okay with that. But making money off of other people's terrible destruction is not okay. Surely your mama taught you that? Do the right thing. Please."
The petition is here. I hope that y'all will join me in signing it.
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