Women do 2/3 of the world's work but receive only 10% of the world's income.
Women's education is the most powerful predictor of lower birth rates.
Of 1.2 billion people living in poverty worldwide, 70% are women.
Women own around only 1% of the world's land.
Women are 2/3 of the 1 billion+ illiterate adults who have no access to basic education.
And yet there is one lucky woman, lucky beyond words, who just might walk away in a few weeks with a Master of Fine Arts Degree. Thanks to willing references, a scholarship from the Women of the ELCA, a student loan, an understanding family, and the good fortune of being born in a time and place whereby she could imagine school in the realm of her reality.
And thanks to her desire to go west. That is the stupider part of the story. Because the only reason she wanted to go west was so to escape the pain she felt when she lost her eastern-bound job. As if going 1,000 miles in the other direction would make her feel better. It didn't. But thinking about it did.
She was so bound and determined to go to Antioch University in Los Angeles that she applied only to that one MFA program. There was no back-up plan. When she didn't get in, she agreed to be put on the waiting list. When she still didn't get in, she applied a second time. When she still didn't get in, she agreed to again be put on the waiting list. And when she finally got in, it was like Antioch had found her.
She was so focused on going west that she hadn't even checked out the fact that Antioch shared her value of social justice. She hadn't checked out its theories on education. During her first writing residency, she didn't know until halfway through the week that half of the instructors were actually students. It turned out to be a place where students and teachers learned together, which, coincidentally happened to be her philosophy of education. There was no hierarchy of the smarter people. She hadn't known that human decency would be valued above all. Which, as happenstance would have it, also matched her way of thinking.
When Antioch found her she didn't know that her cousin-in-law lived three miles from campus, had a spare house, an extra car, another bicycle, and boundless hospitality, thus saving her approximately $7,500 in hotel expenses and gaining her exactly three additional family members for the rest of her life. Not to mention hiking in the mountains and biking on the beach.
She didn't know that writers don't simply get exiled. They write about exile. They don't simply feel deceit, heartbreak, love, and truth. They seek to understand it. Baltimore had spit her out. Los Angeles scooped her up. Des Moines held her tight while she wrestled these real and imaginary demons and angels, for some dumb reason manifested in terms of miles and horizons. She learned that her exile and heartbreak were far less serious than others'.
Now, two years later, she feels all melancholy about it all. About what she put her family through to make this work. About how they happily obliged. About how her husband worked double overtime so she could write. About her kids who didn't get tucked in for about 50 nights. About her student loan and how it will be paid. About the things she's learned and the people she's met. About the fact that Mona Simpson keeps popping up on her Facebook as "someone she probably knows." She doesn't, but apparently nine of her Facebook friends do. She's now two degrees separated through nine lives to this famous writer, you know, not to name drop, but Steve Jobs' sister. About the fact that her mentor, Hope Edelman, is a multiple New York Times bestselling author and one of the most insightful teachers she's ever had. Yes, she now shamelessly name drops.
But mostly, she's infinitely grateful.
And now, she will go back to work on her senior seminar and reading prep, lest this all be a dream that goes puff into the night.
With love, T
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
Salon Expectations
 |
| Queen Noor |
I was reminded of my high expectations when I mentioned the appointment to my 12-year-old son, Aidan.
We were departing his basketball practicee whereby the coach had them playing shirts and skins. (I texted Bob to ask if it's appropriate for boys to play shirts and skins because I thought it was weird.)
"Tomorrow you will have a new mother," I said, after settling the fact that the coach gave the boys a choice whether to be shirts or skins and Aidan had chosen to be on the fully clothed team.
"Oh, what happened to the queen?" he said.
"Huh?" I was confused. Was the tween boy being a smart aleck by implying that my long needed salon appointment was making me an diva mother? Was he making fun of me? Should I cancel the appointment?
"No, remember your last hair-do was that queen," he said, sincerely. He wasn't being a smart mouth, he just had a really good memory. He was right. Last time I went to the salon I took a picture of Queen Noor's hair. Straight the shoulder, layered on top. I was confident that my hair magician could transform me into the former first lady of Jordan whose husband died in spite of long stints at the Mayo Clinic, purple Royal Jordanian Airliner parked at the Rochester, Minnesota, airport for weeks and months. Noor means "light" in Arabic.
"Oh yeah, you're right," I conceded. "I did go for for the queen. I think this time I'll go for the Diane Keaton." A whispy, whimsical bob. You may remember her as the bad parallel parker in "Annie Hall." Bob and I still laugh at the line when she parks in Manhattan and her date, Woody Allen says, That's OK I'll just walk to the curb from here. Bob and I actually say that to each other fairly often, when one or the other of us parallel parks.
"Oh, what's that hair like?" Aidan said.
"I'll show you a picture," I reassured him. I got the feeling that he was afraid that I might actually do something really outlandish.
You see, lately, I've been sporting the recession hair-do. Long, thick, stringy, often pulled into a severe bun. That's when you avoid the cuts and costs of the salon and do the best you can with your cheap shampoo and hot flat iron. If you're lucky, your natural color blends with the color of gray, until your daughter one day discovers your secret.
"MOM! Holy cow, you've got a ton of gray hair!" my Zena-like, statuesque 15-year-old daughter, Amanda, informed me the other day when she hazarded to lift my hair and look underneath. But that's another story. Back to my salon appointment for tomorrow. . .
So anyway, my Queen Noor do worked fairly well for a long time. A loooooong time. I had thought that my next plan would be the Talia Balsam, otherwise known as George Clooney's ex-wife, look. One elegant length, straight the the chin. That's before my hair turned into the recession do, and to be honest, I think it has transformed kinda Michelle Bachmanish. Or maybe it's the serial killer mother eyes. My daughter, who happens to be a varsity cheerleader, says that I tend to evoke serial killer mother in pictures. Sadly, she's right. For some reason when I'm in a picture, I try to present a happy smile and I end up looking menacing, in a middle class kind of way. I get those crazy Michelle Bachman eyes. I'm not crying in my soup about it, I'm just saying all the more reason for a salon appointment.
 |
| Diane Keaton |
I wish my salon medicine woman all the best. You're invited to do the same.
Bob hasn't texted me back yet regarding the shirts and skins dilemma. And just in case you're wondering, this blog post is actually a cleverly disguised yet elaborate procrastination tactic to avoid writing my cumulative annotated bibliography due soon and very soon.
Thanks much for coming over! Hair prayers welcome.
With love, T
Wednesday, November 2, 2011
Notes from three women
She told me she needed to interview someone for her community college class on nonprofit organizations. And so we agreed to meet in my office, where I do communications for a small nonprofit that runs a network of 12 food pantries. She was skinny, her voice was gravely, and her face was potholed as if she'd smoked cigarettes since she was a baby. Her hair was overly blond and kinda stringy yet she was well presented with a long skirt and pretty top. I had to listen hard to understand her words because she didn't enunciate like I'm used to; it was almost like hearing a heavy accent, the accent one talks when they've lived hard. I thought stupid, patronizing thoughts like how great it was that people like her could go to community college. She got right to her assignment, pulled out her notebook, and asked me questions.
"What's your mission?" she asked. I answered.
"Who do you serve?" she asked. I answered.
"Where do you get funding?" she asked. I answered.
And on with all the typical nonprofit questions, until she got to this question: "Do you have interns?" Yes, I answered. Not a lot but sometimes, I said. Why don't you send me your resume and tell me about your interests, I said.
And that's when the conversation shifted. She put her notebook down. She put her student persona down. She put her pretenses down.
"I'll tell you what my interests are," she said, looking straight at me, talking with confidence and conviction that she didn't exude a few moments earlier. Suddenly I could understand her very well. I no longer needed to strain my ears to pick up her sentences.
"My interests are women who are doing prison time and who shouldn't be," she said. "I'm not saying all of them, but I'd say at least half the women in Mitchellville (women's facility near Des Moines) shouldn't be there. They are victims. They were defending themselves. They did drugs to escape. They shouldn't be there and there are no services for them when they get out. They get sent to a halfway house but they don't need a halfway house, they need a chance. They need to get back into the world.
"But I can't do anything until I get my education," she continued. "That's what I'm focused on now." She working towards her associates degree, then her BA in Human Services.
The interview was over. We shook hands and she walked out of my office. I'd given her my business card but after she left it occured to me that I didn't even ask her name. For all I knew, she didn't really exist and I'd simply imagined her.
*
She told me she couldn't get food until Friday. It was Wednesday. She was eyeing the leftover food from our weekly dinner at church. It's food that we put in to-go containers for anyone to take home; food that otherwise would be thrown out during clean up. She told me she didn't want to take the leftovers that others might want. I talked her into taking it. My goodness, take it please. I put the food containers into a plastic bag so it wouldn't look so conspicuous that she was taking it. I asked her to wait so I could forage the church refridgerator for more food. I grabbed a gallon of milk and disguised it in another plastic bag. I gave her my work telephone number so we could chat tomorrow about what food pantry to go to. Later I realized that I could have also given her apples and oranges from the kitchen. I could have run to the grocery store for a gift card. I could have told Bob who could have come up with assistance from a church fund to give her. I could have fixed her life right then and there. Except there are a zillion people like her, thank you very much double dip recession and a cold hearted congress. And I can't fix anyone's life. But I tried as hard as I could to not have a pathetic look of pity on my face as she told me that her cubboards have never looked this bare, that she's never been in this situation before. "I'm a giver," she said, "Not a taker." And by the way, she works full time. She works full time and has no food in the house. Explain that. "We're all givers and takers," I said.
*
She told me she's transitioning from a man. I knew that but I pretended I didn't because I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Her new name is Rebecca Grace. "I got to pick my own name," she said with the most innocent tone of voice you can imagine; a sweetness hard earned by 50 or so years of utter anquish. My Lutheran friends believe that "grace" is a special word. It means loved unconditionally. It means loved nomatter what. It means loved in spite of who we are, what we do, and where we go. We Lutherans believe that but by grace alone do any of us thrive, survive, die, or stay alive. And for those who are into counting heaven, grace is the direct line in. It certainly has to be hard to transition from Michael to Rebecca. For those who are into counting hell, living in another body might be one way to do it. You've got so many people to freak out -- the wife, the kids, the family, the friends, the coworkers. She said that people at her workplace are scared of her. "All they have to do is talk to me," Rebecca Grace said. "I'm happy to answer questions. I won't hurt anyone."
*
These are just a few of the people I've encountered recently. There are so many more, and I wish I had time to write about them all.
Thanks for coming over to the Charmer blog! Wish you all a good night.
With love, T
"What's your mission?" she asked. I answered.
"Who do you serve?" she asked. I answered.
"Where do you get funding?" she asked. I answered.
And on with all the typical nonprofit questions, until she got to this question: "Do you have interns?" Yes, I answered. Not a lot but sometimes, I said. Why don't you send me your resume and tell me about your interests, I said.
And that's when the conversation shifted. She put her notebook down. She put her student persona down. She put her pretenses down.
"I'll tell you what my interests are," she said, looking straight at me, talking with confidence and conviction that she didn't exude a few moments earlier. Suddenly I could understand her very well. I no longer needed to strain my ears to pick up her sentences.
"My interests are women who are doing prison time and who shouldn't be," she said. "I'm not saying all of them, but I'd say at least half the women in Mitchellville (women's facility near Des Moines) shouldn't be there. They are victims. They were defending themselves. They did drugs to escape. They shouldn't be there and there are no services for them when they get out. They get sent to a halfway house but they don't need a halfway house, they need a chance. They need to get back into the world.
"But I can't do anything until I get my education," she continued. "That's what I'm focused on now." She working towards her associates degree, then her BA in Human Services.
The interview was over. We shook hands and she walked out of my office. I'd given her my business card but after she left it occured to me that I didn't even ask her name. For all I knew, she didn't really exist and I'd simply imagined her.
*
She told me she couldn't get food until Friday. It was Wednesday. She was eyeing the leftover food from our weekly dinner at church. It's food that we put in to-go containers for anyone to take home; food that otherwise would be thrown out during clean up. She told me she didn't want to take the leftovers that others might want. I talked her into taking it. My goodness, take it please. I put the food containers into a plastic bag so it wouldn't look so conspicuous that she was taking it. I asked her to wait so I could forage the church refridgerator for more food. I grabbed a gallon of milk and disguised it in another plastic bag. I gave her my work telephone number so we could chat tomorrow about what food pantry to go to. Later I realized that I could have also given her apples and oranges from the kitchen. I could have run to the grocery store for a gift card. I could have told Bob who could have come up with assistance from a church fund to give her. I could have fixed her life right then and there. Except there are a zillion people like her, thank you very much double dip recession and a cold hearted congress. And I can't fix anyone's life. But I tried as hard as I could to not have a pathetic look of pity on my face as she told me that her cubboards have never looked this bare, that she's never been in this situation before. "I'm a giver," she said, "Not a taker." And by the way, she works full time. She works full time and has no food in the house. Explain that. "We're all givers and takers," I said.
*
She told me she's transitioning from a man. I knew that but I pretended I didn't because I didn't want to hurt her feelings. Her new name is Rebecca Grace. "I got to pick my own name," she said with the most innocent tone of voice you can imagine; a sweetness hard earned by 50 or so years of utter anquish. My Lutheran friends believe that "grace" is a special word. It means loved unconditionally. It means loved nomatter what. It means loved in spite of who we are, what we do, and where we go. We Lutherans believe that but by grace alone do any of us thrive, survive, die, or stay alive. And for those who are into counting heaven, grace is the direct line in. It certainly has to be hard to transition from Michael to Rebecca. For those who are into counting hell, living in another body might be one way to do it. You've got so many people to freak out -- the wife, the kids, the family, the friends, the coworkers. She said that people at her workplace are scared of her. "All they have to do is talk to me," Rebecca Grace said. "I'm happy to answer questions. I won't hurt anyone."
*
These are just a few of the people I've encountered recently. There are so many more, and I wish I had time to write about them all.
Thanks for coming over to the Charmer blog! Wish you all a good night.
With love, T
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