alf mabrouk ya masr!

February 11, 2011 is now Independence Day from the rule of Hosni Mubarak, the United States supported President of Egypt for 30 years. The technologically savvy, educated young people of Egypt organized a relatively peaceful 18-day protest that has ousted Mubarak and inspired millions around the world to Dream to Live! 


I am watching coverage of the celebration in Tahrir square - 18 million are chanting peace! life! democracy! - on MSNBC.  Even as I watch this incredibly moving demonstration of human rights and victory over oppression the nagging question for me is: what now?  Egyptians around the world have every reason to be ecstatic! This is a defining moment in modern world history on the side of democracy and liberty, like the destruction of the Berlin Wall. And what concerns millions about this huge turn of events is that no one really knows what might happen tomorrow. Will there be chaos? Will the military be able to create a stable environment so that political processes and rule of law can be reestablished under the new democracy.  And, what will the days ahead mean for Yemen, Iran, Syria and other countries watching, stirring, and preparing to follow Egypt. 


There are many others who are far more qualified than I am to make suggestions for the smooth transition from autocratic military rule to a functioning democracy in Egypt. However, I would like to suggest that the United States Congress consider increasing funds toward this burgeoning democratic state. I have to pay for state-building in Iraq and Afghanistan (such as it is), then why not ask my government to put resources toward a country with a real future? A country filled with people who have proven they are ready for democracy, capitalism, and a peaceful mideast region. Is it too much to ask for a bill to come to the floor like, Tax Payers Choice for Positive Statebuilding? 


It is not a time to step back from the table. Now, is a time to generously offer to support free elections, rule of law, democratic checks-and-balances in government in Egypt. We owe the Egyptians our aid, our resources, our praise and maybe even cold hard cash. What happens next is the Egyptian's destiny, but we cannot escape the United States responsibility in its heartbreaking past. 

Writing: An excuse to vent

In Sex and the City (SATC), Carrie Bradshaw narrates each episode with a question that often begins with "I have to wonder, if..." and after taboos have been exposed and hearts have been broken and mended by the bonds of friendship, she ends with "Or something". I still love watching Samantha, Miranda, Charlotte and Carrie navigate New York City's dating jungle with ferocity, skillful negotiation, a sense of propriety, and humor (usually in a mid-drift bearing top). I would not have known the first thing about treating marriage with sarcasm were it not for Sex and the City. 


Watching the episodes now, as a single, 37-year old woman living and dating in Portland, I get to thinking that I may be a product of the sister-doing-it-for-herself that was the Zeitgeist of the 90s. I chose to exercise my options in my 20s. I did not necessarily choose to stay unmarried until almost 40 years old. One thing is certain, my expectation that I will marry decreases, while my expectations for my future rise with each passing year. I suppose SATC taught me that you can have a great life as long as you live in a great city and have great friends. That's why I moved in with my one friend in Portland from New York City, where I am incredibly lucky to have four great girlfriends.


I have to marvel at what an incredible tool the HBO series was for the writers who got to vent about their own issues and frustrations with dating and the single life and in turn, were validated by ever-increasing numbers of viewers. The show has been internationally syndicated in countries such as Albania and South Korea. Single gals the world over have raised their cosmos, united under the banner, "All the good ones are gay!"  


Sex and the City was a kind of state of single women in modern society report with designer shoes, sexy men, and expensive cocktails. But, what did it really say about them? I wonder, besides being good entertainment, what could Sex and the City have accomplished if it had not been so focused on Vogue, Jimmy Cho, and Prada? Sure, it is great fun to get caught up in the big city fantasy that each of the four archetype characters' stories represented. But what about writing to make a statement and not just to vent? 


What about exposing the real issues women in the 1990s struggled with like the Glass Ceiling, increased divorce rates, sky rocketing expectations for academic achievement and economic attainment? What about how Glee has tackled the current issues of bullying, teen sexual identity, and homophobia while also winning awards and entertaining millions? 


Don't get me wrong. I benefit from this corner where I get to vent myself. Lately, I have been wondering about the usefulness of language and the potency of messages. In a world that is messaged to the max, is it incumbent upon all those in word craft to say something meaningful, to make a point and still have fun, to make their words count, rather than just spout, or something?

Language Please (A little rant, a little too late)

Today, Chris Smith (Rep, NJ) announced that the language of the "No Taxpayer Funding for Abortions Act" (HR3) will be changed to reflect the same language that is used in the Hyde Amendment, striking the qualifying word 'forcible' from rape. 

To the people who said that HR3 would not change the way rape is defined, but only addresses how federal monies are applied to insurance policies that cover abortions (not rape), I would like to express my problem with your political autism here.

As I see it, the problem that I and many other people had was with the exemption in HR3 that would allow federal funding for an abortion prompted by a 'forcible rape'. Assuming that a percentage of women on Medicaid will want an abortion because they have been raped, how then is qualifying eligibility for an abortion by the term 'forcible rape' not a redefinition of rape?  If you cannot receive an abortion subsidized by Medicaid because your rape was not the right kind, then doesn't that beg the question: what is rape?

To the people who say HR3 will help to distinguish between the 'fake' rapes and the 'real' rapes by clearly explaining that the government means 'forcible' rape... I defer to Jon Stewart's writers.  I just hope those people who seek to root out the fakers never have to prove that they have been raped, or their identity was stolen, or they were jipped by the soda machine. I understand that to some of these people the real and plaguing problem is over how we spend our country's diminishing tax dollars. Guns or Butter? Forcible Rape or Margarine Rape? 

I get it. Separation of church and state is a cornerstone American value, which means that you cannot ask the government for money to make fliers advertising a prayer circle in the school gymnasium at lunchtime.  So, there are two governing bodies in the United States of America - church and state - that cannot be joined together to create a state funded pogrom against atheists, secular humanists and libertarians in this fair land. My point is this, HR3 is about de-funding abortion because it's a sin. And, the last time I checked, sin was a religious concept. But we all know that certain members of society are more righteous and better at defining things, like acts of violence such as rape. These lucky people understand the definition of forcible better than say the over 3 million women of reproductive age living below the poverty line that rely on Medicaid, some of which may want an abortion in the future because they have been raped.

Okay. Enough of me. 

Shall we skin the Hyde Amendment? Shall the women of the United States rise up and take to the streets like our Egyptian sisters demanding, with clear and bold language, our reproductive rights? 

A Raft on Lake Ripley

I remember Beverly as someone who you didn't mess with or challenge or tickle, lest you be foiled by her indomitable will or reflexively smacked in the face because you tried foolishly to sneak up on her. 

Beverly was the director of my first sleep-away Awana Camp in the summer of 1983.  It was  a perfect job for her. With her no nonsense haircut and the energy of a natural athlete, she could handle 15 acres crawling with children ages nine to sixteen. We Campers were expected to rise with the sun by trumpet salute, line up to pledge allegiance to the Flag, then give thanks to God, then perform thirty minutes of calisthenics, and return to tidy our rooms before breakfast. God's love, discipline, and Christian camaraderie were the order of the day at Lake Ripley.  Each camper had Bible verses to memorize, skills to obtain, and physical feats to conquer before returning to civilian life after our two weeks.  One of those conditions was to swim out to a raft 100 yards from the beach and back without water wings. At nine years old, I should have been able to swim this distance unaided, but I was haunted by a picture of me clawing at the water as I sank and disappeared into black muck at the bottom of Lake Ripley. My counselor knew that Bev was a family friend and asked her to speak to me about swimming out to the raft. 

Bev joined me on a log where I was contemplating the possibility that I might not sink to the bottom, as evidenced by all the other kids now diving off the raft and having  a great time.  She tried the 'wouldn't you like to join your friends?' approach. I did want to join them but was not entirely sure I would make it. So, better to wait for them to come back to shore, I thought. Bev tried again by throwing me a bone, I'll swim out alongside you, if you start to get scared, I'll be right there. That was comforting, I thought, except for the fact that I might sink faster than she could swim! I gave her a maybe. Bev's final words were something like, You don't want to be afraid to swim, do you? You just have to give it a try and prove to yourself that you can do it! You can sit here and watch all you want, or you can get in the water to make it to the raft. Waddaya say? I looked at her and smiled sheepishly as I shook my head. I was perfectly comfortable with being afraiddy cat, at least I was breathing.

Eventually, I became very confident in my ability to float. As I floated unfettered for a whole ten minutes  for the first time in a pool in St. Louis, Missouri, I remembered and gave thanks for Bev's words about proving to myself that I could overcome my deepest, most irrational fears.  

As I remember, Bev was all straight talk, hard work and grit, that is, until someone would lose their job, be betrayed by a loved one, or have a seriously ill child. In the face of hard times that called for Bev's strength and her fortitude, people would cry and vent to her. Bev's eyes would fill with tears and her normally placid face would be traced with every fear, strain, and bruise right alongside her neighbor, her friend, her employee, and sometimes a stranger.

Though I am not a Bible reader anymore, I found this verse on the internet that I think fits the Beverly that I remember. And, I am thankful for Beverly's love for my family, her fairness as my first real boss, and her profound words on that log at Lake Ripley back in 1983. 

Luke 10:27 -- 27 He answering, said: You shall love the Lord your God with your whole heart and with your whole soul and with all your strength and with all your mind: and your neighbour as yourself.

Gratitude List

January 8, 2011 

As of this writing I am grateful for:

1. Restful sleep
2. Forgiveness
3. Running uphill because it reminds me that I still CAN!
4. My dear friends of skin and fur
5. Personal history; unique soul markers
6. Greener green; chicks in hens nestled in stone, tall trees that look like furry monsters
7. airplanes that take you across country
8. Words to say what you mean, to sooth wounded ears, to bolster the spirit, to rend injustice
9. My father and mother
10. Sunshine on the East River
11. Bicycle lanes on a busy street
12. Borrowed bed sheets and towels
13. Chicken soup with orzo made with scraps of other feasts
14. Jazz music, high tin-like tenor voices, OSNY wall of sound, mastered and mixed sound that glides over the mundane 
15. Listeners
16. Storytellers
17. Brave people who change the world and change themselves
18. Company along the way
19. The desert and FKR
20. Jen and Michael

You Sunk My Battleship, Herman!

   My Mona is terribly, awfully marred. Ona knows how hard I worked for my Mona. 730 nights I was suspended in a pitch black slumber tank, naked but for a nylon mask called a "love helmet" snug around my head and neck, lips spread by a tube providing oxygen. I had to prove myself, earn my Mona. Sleeping like a fish suspended in warm, viscous fluid with no light or sound takes willpower. I would dream of my Mona, her flaxen hair, wrapped around my head, neck, shoulders, arms, and torso, sealing her to me, mouths locked together, all through the night.
   Monas are delicate creatures. They have no free will of their own. Monas live to cook, clean, and pleasure. Such a beautiful, guileless creature may be granted to only one of hundreds of suitors vying for her companionship. Ona saw fit to grant me one after my 730th night in the tank. I had shown myself worthy.
  We lived in harmony for many months and one evening, after dinner, I brought out one of my favorite childhood games, Battleship. 
  "What's that?" Mona said, stroking her hair. Her voice high like the mew of a kitten.
  "Come here," I motioned for her to sit on the couch. She swept up her gown and sat gingerly beside me. I opened the board and gave her the battleship piece to hold. She held the grey plastic miniature as if it were a pearl.
  "What does it mean?" Mona asked.
  "I'll show you," I said. I mimicked a game for her and she watched every movement as if I was dissecting a frog's heart. And then, we played one game.
  To my surprise, she was quite good at Battleship. My Mona ascertained that I almost always placed my Battleship along the edge of the board, while she never had a reliable pattern, or a discernable tell. We played one game every night for two weeks. I quite enjoyed the ritual. And then, she won her first game.
   "D4."
   "YOU SUNK MY BATTLESHIP!" I cried.
   Mona yanked her hair from her face, her blue eyes bulged in confusion. I went to her side and wrapped my arms around her shoulders, stroking her arm, I reassured her that winning was a happy thing.
   Then three months after she won her first game, I came home from work and Mona asked me if I wanted her to make dinner? 
   "Of course," I replied. 
  She stood in the middle of the living room in her white gown.  Her yellow hair neatly braided away from her face, her downy eyebrows and long blond eyelashes were as angelic as before. Her eyes, however, normally dreamy, were alert to something I could not decipher from the placid expression, like a skim of porcelain serenity, on her unblemished face. 
  I should have known something was wrong when she asked me a question. Monas do not ask questions, they are not Bridgets or Tonas. It is not in their engineering to question, they intuit. She was asking me a question about a duty she was specifically created to perform and I should have returned her to the castle the very next day, but I did not want to spend one more night alone.
   A week later, I came home and found my Mona sitting on the floor in front of the battleship board. She was clearly in the midst of a game. 
   "You're playing Battleship all alone?" I said. There was a thundering BOOM inside my head. It is rare, but possible for a sore suitor who lost his bid to a Mona to find yours and deprogram her.  It takes a tremendous amount of skill and access to the sensory machine in the Castle, but it has been done before. 
   I heard the bathroom door open and a Tona walked into the living room. The strange Tona looked at me and walked out our front door without a word. 
   "Where did that Tona come from?"
   "302C."
   "Who is her suitor?"
   "Max Tripplehorn." 
   The name did not ring a bell, but I was far less alarmed at the sight of the red-haired Tona than if say, Max Tripplehorn had walked into our living room. I sat down on the other side of the game in progress.
   I asked, "Whose turn is it?"
   "Yours," she replied.
   I wished then that I had taken a look at her board, but that would have been cheating. The Tona was losing from the looks of it. The only thing left was one hit on her destroyer and one on her aircraft carrier. I had to make my next move count.
  "What was her last hit?"
  "A4."
  "Has she called A3, A5 or B4 yet?"
  "Yes."
  "Were they hits?"
  "D4," I said.
  "You sunk my Battleship, Herman!" Mona cried. 
  I pulled the cord of my imaginary horn for victory! 
  Mona stood up and announced, "I have to make souffle."
  We ate her expertly prepared souffle. After dinner Mona washed the dishes, while I watched the news. Since we had played Battleship, Mona prepared for the slumber tank. She is practically sewn into her gown with its yard or hooks on either side of her bodice and satin ribbons laced along her arms. I decided rather than reading, I would watch her undress. I placed a comfortable chair opposite her dressing mirror with a perfect view. 
  Her fingers move like a concert pianists' playing Mozart. Once unbound, the satin gown falls to the floor revealing her fine collar bone, her pomegranate breasts, and soft, smooth belly. Naked in front of the mirror I saw her do something shocking. My Mona smiled at herself. I saw it with my own two eyes. I could not miss the uplift of her rosy lips, for I was watching her intently.  Mona smiled at her own beauty. The shock of it made me gasp.
   "Mona," I was breathless."Did you smile at yourself?"
   She turned to me, the smile now gone, she answered simply, yes.
   
To Be Continued

Greener green

                   Slippery when _.

_ my whistle. 

                  Sopping _.

_ lands.

                _ behind the ears.

All _ . 

 Mt. Lemmon (Tucson, AZ)

     I am saturated. The green is greener here in Portland. The air is plump with moisture, not dry and jagged against the cheek, like in Southern Arizona.

     We are home for the time being. What a gift to wander around the continent with my pet. We have been hosted so well for the last six months in my parents' winter home in Green Valley. And now, we are cozy in a craftsman house in Northeast Portland, thanks to the generosity of a good friend. In the coming months I will write, work for money, and explore this beloved Pacific Northwest city.

Swan Island (Portland, OR)

     When I was here last June, I experienced Portland's shiny and bright side. As of this writing, I will have been here for 52 hours. I have spent that time in a dark and mossy cave.  The sky is always clouded over. The back porch is slick with moss and the ground is mushy. I have to wear layers now. Being this soggy will take some getting used to, but honestly, I am enjoying it! 

     I wonder, what kind of cave dweller am I? Am I a lumpy pile? Am I a dirt eater? Am I the kind that scales walls in search of a hole to sunny China?

     And so, my life has a new backdrop. But I am still the same girl who climbs mountains in monsoon to reach a radio tower, sweats from her eyeballs, and writes with courage, by wonder, and for love.