Christmas Rant 2007

(I wrote this for a journalism class in 2007, and since then Wal-mart has sold inflatable turkeys. Who knew the power of my piece? :)

I don't remember reading about the Abominable Snowman attending the birth of our Savior, worshipping next to a shepherd, but that is the scene portrayed on the lawn of a home on 200 North.

Along Highway 38 in Deweyville, you will find Mickey, Minnie, Donald, Goofy and Pluto in quick succession behind the Wise Men on course to worship the newborn Christ child. Funny how the New Testament left out that small detail. It smacks of Disney worshipping if you ask me. Others have equally offended the boundaries of commercial versus spiritual.

Maybe you don't have this beef with the season, but I find it inappropriate to blend the "reasons for the season" on the same patch of lawn. I would be appeased if those people simply used the sidewalk leading up to their door as a divider, putting the Nativity on one side, and Santa or the Grinch on the other.

The offenses don't stop there. How about the folks who turn on their Christmas lights just after Halloween? Granted, Thanksgiving decorations are a little harder to come by, merely because Wal-Mart doesn't sell inflatable lawn turkeys. We should really talk to them about that.

I just got off the phone with Wal-Mart headquarters, and in fact they do sell inflatable lawn turkeys. So if you feel the need to adorn your lawn with tacky used car lot gimmicks, $100 can buy you a fix. Actually, I made that up. They don't sell blow-up turkeys, but I'm sure some of you are halfway to your car with Visa check card in hand. I know, I know. I can be so cruel.

Instead of the air-blown turkey, a better idea would be to acquaint yourself with the farmers around here and talk them out of some dried corn stalks and leftover pumpkins. It would be like choosing crème brulée over vanilla instant pudding. When it comes to yard art, there's never room for J-E-L-L-O. A lovely fall scene after Halloween would allow enough time for the appropriate unveiling of all things Christmas.

Lest you discover my own Christmas shortcoming and think me hypocritical, I will confess to listening to SheDaisy's Christmas CD beginning in October. But unless you're riding in my car or sitting in my home, you remain unharmed by my dance with the devil. Yet no matter how hard I try to avert my eyes, the neighbors' inflated crocodile pulling Santa's sleigh in for a front row view of the Baby Jesus catches my peripheral vision.

I nearly gouged out my own eye when on yet another lawn the Polar Express passed by Bethlehem's lowly manger scene. Next year I fully expect to see the Magi kneeling before the King with their gold, frankincense, and myrrh followed closely by a polar bear with his Coca-Cola. There are better ways to honor Him, and we can start by giving the Nativity its own side of the yard.

We Will Never Forget

It was 10 years ago but when I close my eyes, the flashes and the sounds make it feel as if it was 10 minutes ago. I had just stepped out of the shower when I heard my mother yell that a plane had hit one of the World Trade Towers. We all thought it was a freak accident. So I toweled off, pulled on my plaid robe, and twisted my hair into a towel turban. By the time I left the bathroom, the second plane had hit.

We stood there, paralyzed, not fully understanding how two planes could get so off course, not willing to entertain the possibility of an attack. But the words were used. "Terrorist attack." Reports told of the vice president moving locations, though they would not disclose where, thereby averting attempts on his life. The images flashed back and forth between reporters and towers, smoke and ash, people running and screaming. We couldn't turn away. We couldn't change channels. I just stood there, my arms holding the robe tightly to my body in an effort to control my trembling, my head occasionally shaking in disbelief.

Then it happened. A reporter outside the Pentagon was reiterating how little was known about the two previous planes, and suddenly an explosion caused him to duck. He panicked, then quickly composed himself and spoke to the audience in that way reporters do, using a tone of authority with words that added up to say they knew nothing. "There was just an explosion of some kind. It came from the other side of the Pentagon. We will report to you any details as they become available."

Then minutes later we knew. A third plane had hit the Pentagon. I didn't realize then that I had just witnessed the murder of my friend.

I could feel myself devolving into a pathetic bathrobe creature, standing there, staring blankly at a screen while plumes of smoke poured out of the tallest buildings in New York City. Without warning, the second tower collapsed. It just...imploded. I felt my stomach lurch, the vomit rising in my throat. I swallowed hard, closed my eyes and prayed fervently. My legs didn't work; my feet refused to move. I needed to walk to my room and ready myself for work. I would be late as it was. Then reports of a fourth plane that crashed in a field in Pennsylvania, but no one could be sure if it was related to the other three.

The images flashed quickly, repeatedly, and suddenly I felt like I was back in first grade, watching the Challenger explode on perma-repeat. My mother was sobbing behind me on the couch, hot tears staining her cheeks. This time there were no tears yet, too stunned to fully process what was happening. I stared at the screen, thinking of the people who worked in those towers, the firemen rushing in, the passersby in the street gaping at the debris raining down, the innocent travelers who boarded a plane in D.C. and expected to walk off in L.A. The first tower fell 23 minutes after the second had collapsed. Now I didn't know what to pray for, or for whom, or if it mattered. I felt numb.

The 30-minute drive to work crawled. The radio offered no new information, just recounts of what we had watched all morning. All I could think was whether or not my friend Liz's husband, Brady, who worked in a high clearance section of the Pentagon, was alive. Even Liz didn't know how to get a hold of him. She was never given a number to reach him, so each day he had called her. But that Tuesday, her phone didn't ring. What could she do but wait?

I, like most Americans, had no idea how to help, so I stood in line that evening to donate blood. What normally would have taken 45 minutes took three and a half hours, moving slowly forward from chair to chair as we inched our way closer to the blood draw stations. Every 30 minutes we called home to see if there was news on Brady. Nothing. Scoot forward. Scoot forward. Nothing. Scoot. Scoot. Nothing.

For seven days we would know nothing. Assumptions were made, but I never allowed myself to stop hoping that he was in a coma, sans identification, and when he awoke, we would get a call to say he was alive the whole time. But Monday's phone message didn't include a coma, or a miracle. Dental records had identified his body.

A week's worth of hope spilled out of me in a deluge of tears. The deep sobs bruised my chest and swelled my eyes. I wanted to be grateful that we knew, unlike so many families in New York City, but I had no room for gratitude. Brady was dead; Liz was a widow at 25. I had just seen her in March, excited about life, glad for the new job that had moved them to the area, the same job that would cost her husband his life. What now? I wrote a letter to express my deep sorrow for her loss, but nothing I said fixed this. Nothing I wrote made the hurt smaller. I'm not sure when I fell asleep that night, but I remember wishing I would not wake up, or that I would wake up to find it had all been a horrible dream.

Ten years later, the same question remains. What now? Today my heart is heavy, desperate to right this evil, desperate to help people remember and understand what was lost that day. We didn't just lose towers and strangers, faces known only to those who loved them. We lost hope, and a feeling of security. We lost the comfort of innocence and naivety. We lost our childhood.

I haven't slept well in 10 years. I want to feel safe again. I want to board a plane without fearing who else might be taking my flight. I want to pack a full tube of toothpaste in my carry-on. I want to feel good about bringing children into this world. I want back the life I had on Sept. 10, 2001. I want to take back what was lost and fight for what is good, but my only weapon is words, and today they don't seem enough.

Poetry Schmoetry

A Song I Wrote for Myself on the Dismal Eve of my 31st Birthday. (Maybe I should think of another title...something shorter.)

Don't know where I thought I'd be,

or who, or what, if anybody,

but with three decades behind me,

it wasn't s'posed to be here.

Had in mind what I would do,

but opportunities were far and few.

I told myself I was just passing through,

and yet I'm still here.

So life goes on and on,

never asking if you're coming too.

There's a moment you realize it's gone;

your chance is behind you,

it's gone.

It hurts to know I bear the fault,

too scared to leap for fear I'd fall.

Now sinking slowly against this wall

also known as 'here.'

Who can know which road to choose.

Each choice a risk, another chance to lose.

You can't get hurt if you never move--

That's how I ended up here.

So life goes on and on,

never asking if you're coming too.

There's a moment you realize it's gone;

your chance is behind you,

it's gone.

But one day in the future near,

when I have set aside my fears,

I'll take the wheel and finally steer

somewhere away from here.

Take back my life and finally steer,

away from here.

Childhood Revisited

I was born in Denver, Colorado, which automatically makes me a Broncos fan. During my first grade year, we began collecting baseball cards because they came with a stick of gum. You know the kind that turns old minutes after you begin chewing? But we loved it, and we kept buying it. The kids all decided we had better choose teams to love so we could trade cards with one another. Naturally I chose the Mets because they had the same colors as the Broncos. Turns out they had more in common than just colors....like long stretches of being losing teams. But I am not a fair-weather friend, and thus have maintained my love despite my teams being Jay Leno punchlines.

I finally got to see my team play, but unfortunately the game was against my other team, the Nats. (Loved likely for the similarity in name's length and sound, and losing streak.) I wore a vintage Mets hat and sat right behind the Nats' dugout. Every time I applauded the Mets I got the stinkeye from the surrounding fans. The Mets won 10-5 so you can imagine how well liked I was! The only way the game could have been more enjoyable would have been to catch one of the MANY pop flies. Guess it wasn't meant to be. Nor was eating delicious nachos....the chili proved too sturdy for the chips to survive the five-minute walk back to my seat. Boo.

And So the Fear Sets In

It's what I wanted, right? I've long said I wanted to be an actress, or have my own sitcom. Well here it is, the chance for which anyone wanting to write in Hollywood would give their front teeth, and I'm constantly trying to talk myself out of quitting before I get started. It's just fear. Fear of failing, fear of succeeding.

It's that quote by Marianne Williamson:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.
It is our light not our darkness that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous,
talented and fabulous?
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small does not serve the world.
There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other
people won't feel insecure around you.
We were born to make manifest the glory of
God that is within us.
It's not just in some of us; it's in everyone.
And as we let our own light shine,
we unconsciously give other people
permission to do the same.
As we are liberated from our own fear,
Our presence automatically liberates others.
—Marianne Williamson

Now if I can just remember this, daily.

Can you spell "restart?"

I know I'm not a professional skier, nor am I in anyway qualified from a cozy couch position three time zones away to say what should or should not happen on the slopes of Vancouver. But I think I know best in this case. During the first run of the Women's Giant Slalom, the fog was so thick I couldn't find the skier on the track on the television. They would cut to a different camera angle, and I knew there must be a competitor somewhere on my screen, but she may as well have been the golf ball in the blue sky of the Master's tournament. Even bright blue Julia Mancuso was indistinguishable. But instead of postponing the event, the officials decided to compress the run by pinching the lag time between skiers, forcing two skiers to be on the course at all times. I'm guessing they knew the possibility of a crash impacting the flow, and forcing the subsequent competitor to stop, but likely just crossed their fingers and hoped for the best.

Posting the best times at the check points, Lindsay Vonn was well on her way to a position in the top ten when she wiped out. Whether Mancuso was already on the course when Vonn wiped out or not, I do not know. If she was still in the starter gate, the officials did a poor job of pausing the action. Epic failure is more like it. If she was already on the mountain, it was barely. Nonetheless, she was stalled half way down by the safety yellow flag, forced to head back up and start again. Thirteen skiers later, and that much more damage to the course, she finished a dismal 18th in round one. And she cried as privately as she could. And I cried with her. The defending gold medalist, through no fault of her own, lost the physical and mental edge she was clearly demonstrating in her original first run, and in the end she lost the repeat top spot on the podium. Shame on you, Vancouver. Shame on you.

I Can Jump More Times Than You

Under the newest convoluted scoring system for Figure Skating, your overall performance doesn't matter as long as you get in the most landed jumps. Your arms can look lanky, sloppy, and flailing; your face can fail to disguise your move-to-move thought process; your artistry can be completely lacking, but as long as you throw in 7 triple jumps, most being in combinations, then you're clearly deserving of the gold medal. While some may argue it's an athletic sport, and the jumps are the athletic portion, I argue that it used to suffice to skate beautifully with a few tricks. Yes, the jumps are exciting, but Michelle was always more deserving of our adoration than Tara. Likewise, Sasha is more deserving than Rachel what's her name, this year's national champ.