Mother's Day

I get irritated when I watch many so-called kid's movies. Have you ever noticed just how many of them out there have the child protagonist who has a father but no mother? Seriously! Let's review just a few: Cinderella (granted, Father dies too, but still), Snow White, Beauty and the Beast, How to Train Your Dragon, Finding Nemo, The Little Mermaid, Lilo & Stitch, Chicken Little and even Bambi! Yes, there are exceptions (Mulan, Mary Poppins, Kiki's Delivery Service, the Princess and the Frog, etc.) and many films where the poor kid is an orphan. I am just saying that between Pixar and Disney, one would never know that women statistically outlive men. (And for the record, I admit that my position as both woman and mother may be influencing my perception of numbers...) I was, frankly, THRILLED when Brave came out; a film with two strong and good female characters (occasionally it happens).

Eight years ago I wasn't nearly so sensitive to this stuff. Then I got pregnant (at 41 as has been discussed ad nauseam in an earlier post) and had a child and suddenly all things maternal became of interest to me. Not that I didn't know, understand or appreciate my own mother. On the contrary, she was my hero, my inspiration and my motivation in many things growing up. In fact, it occurred to me that I have written about her but mostly in terms of her illness and subsequent death and she was so much more than those things; heroic as she was during both. It seems tardy of me, but I decided to write about her for two reasons. One, I miss her. Every.Single.Day. Writing about her and some of her radiance and some of her flaws, keeps her with me. Two, someday Nora will want to know more about her Grandmother and this seems a pretty good way to start.

My Aunt gave me this VERY cool Life magazine from the
week my Mom was born.

My Mom was born on October 16, 1943, the middle of three daughters (bless my grandfather). There were definitely some birth order issues there but lets not even go there; suffice it to say that like most, my grandparents did the best they could with what they knew and they raised three great kids. Lynn was, whether because of her personality, birth order or both, always trying to please her parents (usually to no avail). She fell in love with the "wrong" boy and let him go because her folks didn't approve. Then she fell for "such a nice boy" who charmed the stuffing out of my grandparents (and just about everyone else he met), got pregnant and, with shotgun hidden discretely behind the punch-bowl, she married my father. Now, I am not trying to trivialize or make something somehow tawdry. My mother loved my father and I choose to believe that he loved her as well; as best he knew how at that time of his life.

Five months later I was born. My father was adventurous and cocksure and Mom was ready to leave the nest. He tried to get her to smoke pot (she hated it) and they both went down to Santa Monica to await the arrival of a supposed Tsunami (it never came). He wanted to travel the world, she wanted security for her daughter (the apple didn't fall far from her parents' tree). A month before I turned two, my father left. He came back a couple of times, for visits and to confuse them both all over again, but they never again lived together and what began as young and impetuous love ended acrimoniously with both of their parents getting too involved (my paternal Grandmother convincing my father that my mother was out to jail him and my maternal Grandmother not understanding how he could "turn out so bad"). In the end it was just the two of us.

I could go on and on with background; she married again, it was a disaster, we moved to a new suburb of Los Angeles when I was just going in to fourth grade, I hated it for a very long time. The thing that I want to share, though, about my Mom is all the fun we had together and how spontaneous she could be. Most of these little moments were between 1982 and 1985, but rest assured I will make you nauseous with stories about my Mum.

How about lunch?
One weekend, right before I was to go back to school in Hawaii, my Mom said she was taking me to lunch at a new place. Cool! What time do we need to leave? In about an hour, she said (it was 9am). Umm, where is this new place? You'll see. Oh, it was one of those lunches. We took the dogs (3 of them) and hopped in the car and went "for a drive." My Mom rocked on road trips. If there was a scenic way to get there, we took it; things to see, we stopped to see them. Three hours later we arrived in Santa Barbara and had lunch at a very cute bistro (no idea now what it was called or what I ate). Then Mom asked if I wanted to keep going north on the coast (heck yeah!), so we ended up at Trader Vic's in San Francisco for dinner. Then we thought-wow, we are only five hours from Gpa and Gma's house on the river...should we? Of course we should, but it involved getting a hotel room in Vallejo and then getting up early and zooming north so that we ended up walking into the Glenburn Church just as people were filing in. My grandmother, who was playing the organ (the old fashioned foot pump type) started moving her feet madly when she saw us walk up to the front pew in this tiny church to take our seats next to my dozing grandfather. He looked up, asked if there was anything wrong, smiled when we shook our heads and went back to "listening" to the beginning of the sermon. We ended up staying the night and hauling ass back to L.A so I could catch my flight, but what a crazy and lovely way to end the summer.

A Long Weekend
When I was living in the dorms in Hawaii my mom sent me a card once that said "I am coming for a long weekend; details when we talk." So of course when  I called her I asked for details and sure enough she was coming for Memorial Day weekend, 1983. When I went to the airport to meet her I was completely surprised to see my cousin, Devin, in tow. (When I initially moved to HI, my younger cousin, Chris, was able to go with and we had a great week, but my older cousin was unable to make it. My Mom was big on equity.) My Mom, true to form, brought some goodies with her from across the sea. Most notably she brought a dozen beef burritos from my favorite home town taco stand (Taco Treat) and my college friends and I scarfed! Obviously we had a lovely time, but the kicker to me was that she wanted to come all that way for a long weekend just so we could be together (it was a recurring theme between us, actually).

Happy Birthday
Mom could make a birthday so special. First, she was a great cook (no, really great) and next, she paid attention so she always seemed to know just what to make or where to take me or what to get. It should be stated that, although we were quite poor when I was young, by the time I was a teenager, I was pretty spoiled (though my mother would be the first to be sure I wasn't "rotten").

For my 18th birthday (which, in Hawaii at the time, was the legal drinking age), my Mom sent me several care packages. In one was a carefully packed, once-frozen birthday cake that she had frosted, not with buttercream, but with her famous home made FUDGE. In another she packed a blender, some margarita mixer and a bottle of Cuervo gold tequila (not sure it was legal to ship those across state lines, but oh well...). It was a festive B-Day, indeed.

Go, For God's Sake!
When I was nineteen I had the opportunity to travel to Europe with one of my best pals. She had relatives in Germany and we were to use them as our base camp while we rambled here and there for two months. My Mom was completely up for it and said she would foot most of the bill. My grandparents-well, my grandmother, was UN-thrilled. She felt I was being spoiled and parasitic to be taking advantage of my Mom by allowing her to pay so much money just so I could "flit around Europe with no job, no degree and no prospect." My grandmother was so aghast about the whole thing that she wrote me a scathing letter with lots of adjectives about what a horrible daughter I was. I was heartbroken and angry at the receipt of that letter and told my Mom that I would happily bag out of the trip. She poo-pooed the letter, my grandmother and anyone else that might find the idea so ridiculous. "Go, for God's sake. You have no idea when or IF you will ever get the chance again!" So I did. It was a brilliant trip: England, France, Belgium, Germany, Austria, Italy and Greece. I saw amazing things, met wonderful people and had lots of adventures (Paolo, you want me to go to Sardinia with you-where IS Sarndinia?). That trip, in fact, was the first of many solo, or nearly so, adventures I would take before finally settling down to marry and have a child. If Nora gets a similar chance- I will tell her the same thing. "Go, for God's sake!"

Oh, I sent my grandparents a postcard.

Lynn R. Swenson, 1961

Of course I have so many other stories about my Mom. She was fun, sensitive, her heart was easily broken by lovers, friends and family. She was generous to a fault and she was terrible with money. She had the simplest dream: to build a life with her soul-mate and take care of her family. My mother kept Christmas better than anyone I have ever known. She filled my and my grandparents' stockings every year (yes, she drove to their house, if close enough, in the middle of the night and filled them!). She loved the color green (kelly, not forest), dark chocolate, frogs, horses, her pets (dogs and cats) and her family. She kept secrets, hand made cards and presents and tons of photos but never in a book. She made the best holiday feasts and bought the most thoughtful gifts. She was a true friend, even when others weren't strong enough to be the same for her. And no number of words, anecdotes or stories could adequately describe the amazing woman who raised me, mostly alone. And while for much of my adult life she and I were criticized for being "too close" and for not "cutting the apron strings," she apparently did well enough so that fate could take her way too young and leave me to live a decent life and take care of my family on my own.

She didn't get to meet Nora, or see me complete my Master's thesis, or become successful at a real job, or buy a house, but without her I couldn't have done any of it with any degree of success. Additionally, I am trying to learn where she perhaps had gaps (I am better with money-usually ;)

So, on this Mother's Day, which is only different from any other day in that I am writing about you, not just thinking about you, I will say, I love you Mom.

Now, if you are reading this and are able--go call your mother.

Fear, Itself

One of the most basic, in some cases most dreaded emotions that humans experience has got to be fear. When do we first learn fear? If we are lucky it is not until we have found out the hard way that falling from a high place can hurt. From then on, we live in fear, fight fear, face fear, have nothing to fear, have everything to fear, are fearFUL or fearLESS and we share or hide our deepest fears. Forget love; fear is all around us!We even define courage with fear: Courage is being afraid and doing what must be done anyway.

Nowadays, people are afraid. The economy, the environment, a new Pope, gun control or not, gay marriage or not, terrorism, holy war and civil war (both oxymora), natural disasters and man-made catastrophes. We fear toxins in our water and food, in our air and in our earth. We fear we will never know what is out in space and we fear that what is out in space will come here (whether as a large meteor or an alien visit). We revere people in power and feel better when they tell us not to fear, but they were also likely the ones to tell us how much we should fear. We live in a world that is out to get us! Frankly it astounds me that more people aren't outright jumpy on a daily basis.

Pop culture follows our rhythms when it comes to fear (no surprise, as pop culture is sort of a barometer of the mood of a society). We display our fear, our feelings of dis-empowerment (which causes fear and anger, which is caused by fear-try to follow THAT) in our movies, TV and other entertainments. Zombies have perhaps never been as popular as they are now, and according to Clemson University Professor, Sarah Lauro, we become obsessed with zombies during times of economic upheaval (scary to all of us). Personally, I can see that. I am fascinated by zombie movies (if they aren't too gory), but they also scare the stuffing out of me and can give me the heebie jeebies all night, which is why I try to watch such things (remote at the ready to fast forward if it is too scary) before it gets too late. I think they scare me more than the run-of-the-mill monsters like vampires and giant, Tokyo-eating reptiles because they are, essentially, us; but with all the good stuff gone (we are a dangerous enough creature even when the good stuff is present). I loathe horror movies of the "slasher" variety. I hate gory violence perpetrated by and against humans; it actually fusses with my physiology.But films such as Saw, Friday the 13th, and Scream meet some sort of need or there wouldn't be so many sequels, prequels and knock-offs. It is an interesting phenomenon, but I don't get it. The only reason I think I can stand to watch zombies is that in my relatively logical mind, I am mostly convinced that they are not possible. Fear.

Note: I was going to put a photo of a zombie here, but I couldn't find one that didn't freak me out.

When asked about the newest zombie craze, the Zombiefather himself, George Romero, said that today's zombies play by different rules and that he doesn't understand the obsession. I thus submit he has solid investments and is not worried about paying his mortgage, losing his job, paying for college, etc. Subtext and deeper meanings aside; I don't care what a zombie flick is aiming for in terms of lofty meaning, the one common thing is that  humans turning into mindless, instinct-driven creatures without feeling, pain or fear, SCARE THE HELL OUT OF US, and we seem to love it. Who would have thought one of the most popular shows on TV would be about surviving and trying to navigate through a post-zombie apocalyptic world. Admit it-you know exactly who I mean when I say: Rick, Carl, Shane, and Andrea. The Walking Dead, an episodic TV show, is just ending its third season (there will, no doubt, be a fourth). Three seasons about a plucky, familiarly dysfunctional and changing group of survivors who want nothing more than to find a place to settle and raise a family without the fear of some "walker" ruining it all by trying to eat their faces off (reasonable, yes?).  

Speaking of walkers, it is Good Friday as I write this and thousands of pilgrims are making the walk of the faithful to El Santuario de Chimayo in northern New Mexico. This morning on the radio, the hosts were discussing how, because of the TV show, the pilgrims will no longer (for a while at least) be referred to as "walkers" because of the zombie connotation from the show. True? Probably not, but interesting what came to mind with the utterance of a simple word.

Where was I? Oh yes, FEAR. I have noticed, as I get older (also a source of great fear to many), that my fears have evolved along with me. When younger, aren't  our fears simpler (again, if we are lucky)? Fearful that we won't go to prom, that we won't pass our driving test, that we won't get into the college of our choice (yes, the fears of a lucky kid in the developed world). We don't typically fear falling, car accidents, or illness because we are all ten feet tall and bullet-proof (and in my blessed and cushy world I never feared gang violence, mortar shells or famine)! I noticed when I had my daughter (at the ripe old age of 41-and no, that is not a typo) that I suddenly found myself experiencing the most unfamiliar fears; some mostly insignificant, like slight pangs, while others were baseless but bothersome. Suddenly I consistently drove within 5 mph of the posted speed limit, always wore my seatbelt, dressed appropriately (and made others do so) for the weather, paid attention to my spending and my choices of entertainment (hmm, Perfect Circle or Raffi?). It was a strange road...it still gives me the shivers. Now, I am not quite as fearful as I was of somehow denting my daughter's psyche before she reaches adulthood (acceptance that it is somewhat inevitable?). Instead, I have other fears. I fear both not having a job and staying in the one I have now. That is fear; an incongruous little beastie that either sneaks up on us or hits us square in the jaw; and often we can't predict which it will be.

Fear is always with us; whether in plain sight or just out of view. It is always ready, though, to catch us at a vulnerable moment and try to get the best of us. Fear is part and parcel of our experience; it is how we deal with our fears that shapes who we are to ourselves and others. Individual fear, while alarming, doesn't rattle my nerves half as much as group fear. When a large group is afraid, the most devastating consequences can occur. Ahh, you think I am being dramatic, don't you?

Think about fear and how it messes with not only the individual but the collective consciousness. The so-called Red Scare of the 1950s, the Cold War, AIDS, Bird Flu, and now the Global Economic Crisis, just to name a very few. All of these moments in history were built upon and controlled by the fear of a large group of probably otherwise rational people: 

                        

                           "A person is smart. People are dumb, panicky 

                            dangerous animals and you know it."

                                           - Agent K, Men in Black

When people are afraid they tend to say and do things that they may well regret later, especially if egged on by someone they perceive as somehow more in control and on top of the situation. I am sure that to many people, Senator Joe McCarthy seemed perfectly reasonable in persecuting actors and artists and accusing them of being disloyal to their country. After all, he was an elected official, he had inside information (and ambition to spare). I am sure that the people who sold out their friends and neighbors as being communists weren't doing it out of primal fear for their own lives and livelihoods; but rather as dutiful American citizens...uh huh, you betcha.

Fear made people afraid to sit on public toilets during the 1980s. Now, I have a similar fear but it isn't because I fear getting AIDS (have you seen some of those places?!). I remember the hysteria; people freaking out over mosquito bites, kissing and using the same damn towel as someone who might be infected with the "homosexual's disease." I imagine some people look back at those times and experience a bit of shame... 

The big fears du jour seem to be gun control and gay marriage, and both are eliciting some mighty strange and irrational behaviors. I get that people use factoids that make their argument and conveniently forget those that might go against, but I am positively amazed at how people have used the Bible to make their arguments to justify hate and bigotry when on the very next page there are likely laws they wouldn't dream of following. There is nothing like selective law-abiding, but don't worry, we all do it to some degree; I used to speed, remember? Fear. But of what? Fear that the gay couple next door might be viewed as legitimate as you and your opposite sex spouse? Or is it a fear of the unknown? I have always harbored the thought that the more homophobic a person is, the more they fear that they too, might be one of them-GASP! Newsflash, wondering what it is like to kiss or have sex with someone of the same gender doesn't mean you are a homosexual (although you might be)-it means you are curious. Fear. 

Gun control is a slightly different but still familiar issue with regard to fear. People become afraid when their values are threatened (see above, gay marriage). Try to follow me down THIS rabbit hole...Values are those things, beliefs, ideas on which we spend resources (time, money, energy, etc.) to protect. When our values are perceived to be threatened, we get mighty fearful and that kind of fear begets anger and irrational digressions (read: paranoia) into new environs. I am summarizing here so don't go all hater on me: The big gun issue over the last few years has been over assault weapons (who needs them ,who can/should have them, etc.). Then some psycho with a gun (or ten) murders people (igniting fear!) and raising the argument on guns to a different level. Unfortunately, this elevation then leads to assumptions about the government's motives in trying to disarm its people and brings up all sorts of comparisons to the rise of Hitler and the impending disintegration of our society. 

On FaceBook I have been watching, with equal parts bemused detachment and fearful awe, the continuing argument between posts about our "dictator" President and his hypocrisy in wanting to disarm all the regular people while he keeps his armed security force. Or, the posts that quote Hitler (completely out of context) with the inevitable statement that the U.S is next! The problem with this rhetoric, aside from the fact that it just instills more fear, is that when driving back to the facts, these fears are baseless. Unfortunately, fear-mongers never let little things like facts get in the way of their agenda. Additionally, and more frightening to me, is that these things also veil the issues that, in my not-so-humble opinion, we should actually be fearing. I am frankly more afraid of big corporations genetically modifying our food supply into oblivion while we act like sheep and do nothing about it. I am afraid that we are destroying our natural world faster than we can identify the damage, must less try to fix it. I am afraid that if we don't figure out that we have infinitely more in common with the rest of the world than we have differences, we are going to destroy ourselves in some vain and pointless effort to demonstrate some sort of pseudo-superiority. Fear.

I know, I am taking all of this too seriously.

Here's my bottom line, I guess. We will never get rid of fear (we shouldn't, it is a biological imperative that helps us survive). Franklin D. Roosevelt was right, however, when he said that,  "The only thing we have to fear, is fear itself." If we know we are afraid, and that it shapes our behaviors, we can, in theory, also realize when we are acting dangerously towards each other or the common good. For example, I have learned that throwing a shoe at some poor arachnid is going to neither alleviate my fear of them, nor will it be beneficial to the spider. The same is true about more "significant" fears (Note: I am not trivializing arachnophobia. When I was a kid I spent a week leaping at least two feet to and from my bed at night and every morning after seeing a house spider crawl underneath. I was terrified to get my feet too close to where I couldn't see if there was a spee-ider waiting to eat my toes off in one big, fangy bite.). IF people would stop looking outward to find (and destroy) the source of their fears; instead looking inward to try and understand exactly what and why they are afraid, much less social damage and conflict would occur.

Yes, a lofty dream. But it gives me something to think upon while I build up enough nerve to maybe, perhaps, possibly watch, in the daylight, on a small screen, with company, the upcoming Brad Pitt zombie flick, World War Z (Zombies who run fast?! Oh good night, Mabel!).

One last note on fear...I pondered this for days before I finally decided to add it to the above. There is a fear (only slightly alluded to in the previous narrative) that we all feel at one point or another in our lives. I won't say it is the fear of death because I am not so afraid of dying as I am of dying too soon (which is probably like much of the population). When illness, injury or (gods forbid) war, famine or natural catastrophe occur, fear takes on a different shape. When my mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer her initial fear was palpable (as was mine). That fear can be a driving force to battle a disease with everything at your disposal; it can motivate people to help each other in times of crisis; or it can bring out our lesser selves that slink away thinking only of our own fate. More often though, that sort of life-threatening fear brings out the best of us. The most courageous people I have ever met are those who face their own mortality with grace and humor and acceptance. I hope I would be so courageous in similar circumstances. Now, being thus the paragon of grace, etc. when faced with possible, probably or certain death is not to say that these same people won't fight with every fiber of their being in order to "not go gently into that good night." Rather, it is those people (and the people who support and care for them) who show courage either way; for it takes a huge amount of courage to fight in the face of some of these things., especially knowing the fight may be for naught. I say all of this having only been a spectator to such things...but my day will come and I hope for wildcat fury and fight AND grace and acceptance WHEN IT IS TIME (and here's hoping we all get a say in that).

Top of the Food Chain, Ma!

I worry about my species. We are arrogant and selfish creatures who have not learned the idea of stewardship for those things over which we supposedly hold dominion. Instead, we pillage and plunder our home, its creatures and each other. It is that last element that leaves me sometimes a bit hopeless. Unlike the animals before us that were highly successful for millions of years (until they weren't), we have managed to ravage each other without much thought as to consequences, while at the same time claiming some innate entitlement to lord over all around us because WE say we are built in the image of God. Somehow though, I don't think God (by whatever name you know him/her/it) meant us to be as cruel and indifferent to each other as we seem, in our short time on Earth, to be proving to be.

Recently a dear friend of mine was put to a test. She has a job that she likes, co-workers she admires and respects and a goal to build a career. She also has kids and a husband who adore her. Add to the mix a new variable; a supervisor who would not take "No" (or "Hell no," "Not gonna happen," or "No way!") for an answer, a "person" who decided to hold his power over her in an attempt to do his completely pig-like bidding. The short of it is that after months of more and more inappropriate behavior and disrespect, the cork finally popped and this supervisor was reported. Unfortunately, this act on her part took an immense amount of courage (stick with me here). While she has had many many messages of support from friends and strangers alike, she knows that the gossip machine works tirelessly; to spread sordid alternatives, cause and effect scenarios, and out of context judgments across the site. Instead of working in an environment that would be supportive of the victim and set its sights on punishing the perpetrator, she instead works with human beings. Human beings love drama! We have loved drama since the first time a caveman stole his best buddy's cave-wife while the rest of the clan took sides. We can't help it, apparently. For while we love a hero story we also love to watch people fall. Perhaps it gives us some way to measure ourselves as better, or luckier ("Thank God I am not her!"), than those who stumble. Or perhaps it takes our minds off our own troubles for the moment. I also tend to think that we simply aren't as evolved as we like to think we are. We still revert to our more base thoughts and actions. We are, in a word, fickle, and succumb to group-think, dogmatism, and an over-developed sense of self-importance.

My friend's courage is needed now, more than when she first decided on her fateful step to stop a predator from hunting her. Now, she will face speculation, whispers, misinformation and the grueling information dump that will be a trial (or two). She will discover who of those close to her will remain so and who will give up, change sides, or live vicariously through her. She will need to depose, testify, interview, and...wait. All of this will be done in front of an audience; at work, in the community, in the local media. Her fortunes will rise and fall to the delight of those "watching" her. 

We humans laud ourselves and each other when we reach the top or make sacrifices for the common good (of us, especially). But when the hero falls, as so many do, what happens then? Yes, a rhetorical question, because as we know, we are the first to check the media to get the gory details (e.g., Oscar Pistorius, Lance Armstrong, Michael Jackson) and toss in our two cents. The thing is, we are, as a species, pros at this stuff by now. While the Internet provides us with lightning speed information (right or wrong) we have been yearning for scandal since time immemorial (Gladiator fan clubs, camp followers, Buffalo Bill's Wild West Show, ten cent "true stories," yellow journalism, Watergate, the Lewinsky Dress, "Winning," etc). 

Why haven't we moved forward? Or have we? We certainly like to think we have. 

The past hundred years has seen more technological innovation than in the past 10,000 and yet, socially have we really grown? Even this most recent national election highlighted a faction of people who rankled at the idea of "progressive" policies and ideas. Umm, what? 

                            

                                             The Greatness of a society and its moral progress                                  can be judged by the way it treats its animals.

~Mahatma Gandhi

I submit we can accurately add to the above statement: "...animals, elderly and ill."

Humans are, by all accounts, the top of the food chain. We love the power. We could obliterate almost any other species on this planet (in many cases we have). But how many of us view our dominion over other creatures as a responsibility to care for and protect them? (Hu)Man's best friend is the dog, but we over-breed, beat, maim, neglect and kill thousands per year. Anytime you think we have evolved past throwing gladiators into the arena, look at dog fighting and how popular it remains. When dogs (or any other animal we claim to love) no longer serve their purpose (say, in an election, Governor Scott!) as companion, bread winner, entertainment; they are discarded like garbage or destroyed as if they have no right to live as we say we do.

Why do we think we are so special? Why do people like "the supervisor" believe they are untouchable and can destroy people on a whim. Why do countries profess to stand on moral high ground when they ignore (or worse CAUSE) their brothers and sisters suffering across the globe because they are a different color or speak a different language or call their God by a different name. Sometimes I think it has been downhill ever since we figured out fire. How can we spend untold numbers of dollars (pounds, drachmas, rubles) devising better and more efficient weapons, but we can't ensure everyone on the planet is fed? We whine, complain, judge, plunder, ruin, pollute and destroy.

And yet...

Here's where it gets complicated (welcome to the top of the food chain) and thus impossible for me to stay bitter... we demonstrate glimmers. Glimmers of the humanity we strive to be, that we foolishly think we are, that we should be. I am not talking about the "sexy" moments; not the Brad Pitts going in to evenhandedly save a neighborhood in New Orleans (while that is awesome, too), or when a doctor leaves his million dollar practice to help kids in the jungle (again, a great thing). I am thinking about the small, every day miracles that people perform. When people place themselves in harm's way to help another. When a firefighter goes back in the house for a pet. When people inconvenience themselves to see someone else rise up. When volunteers scour frozen neighborhoods to ensure shut-in people have blankets.The moments when a leader of a mega-church, or a politician, or an executive, or anyone with power, steps aside and does something truly good, simply for the reason that it is the good thing to do (I know, I couldn't think of any examples of those but I am hopeful they are out there). When we accept accountability for our role in all the bad. The moments when humans don't think about what's in it for them.These are the moments that give me hope for our species. When I see a stray dog brought in from the cold and given a forever home. When I see people standing up for what will help not only them, but others, of any species- this is when I swell with pride at humanity. For it is not in those moments when the cameras are rolling or the audience is listening that make us top of the heap; it is those incremental moments when we actually do move forward, with humility, compassion, grace, and love, that might actually save us.

Just like the dinosaurs, humans will likely have an extinction event. Whether there will remain a record of a species that evolved to a pinnacle or remained static before it died off, is up to us. The choice is before us every day. Hate or love? Give or take? Create or destroy? Accept or judge? For those who are not content to simply coexist, but strive to live with each other, no matter their apparent differences (I submit humans are much more alike than different, no matter their demographics), these decisions are thoughtful and important moments that affect the future. For those purposely living with myopia and ego- or ethno-centrism, the choices remain automatic and will continue to bog us down in the mire that is, quite frankly, our collective self.

But, as long as I see those glimmers, I remain optimistic that, in Anne Frank's words, "...people are really good at heart." 

Here's hoping.

Luaus, Kamehameha and a crazy little thing called Swipe.

When I was young I moved to Hawaii to go to college. It was almost a lark, and I almost didn't go at all. During the waning days of high school when everyone around me seemed to have their "plan" worked out, I felt just as confused and aimless as I had been through the doldrums that were, to me, the summation of my HS career. Don't get me wrong, I was not a loner (unless I wanted to be), I was not part of any one group, but had friends in most of them. Mostly my interests were, as my Senior year started to wind down, all about ditching school to go to the beach; whether to catch a morning swell or just escape my first few classes. Luckily I had a Mom who would  write me notes so that even if I came to class smelling of seawater, I had been given a pass because I had gone to the "doctor."

Hawaii Loa Campus: Main Bldg in ctr, dorms far left-not bad huh?

One day in the mail I received one of those "your SAT scores might be high enough (but not too high) to come to our little private college on the windward side of Oahu" brochures. I visited Hawaii with my grandparents and cousins and we had a blast  What sea-loving kid in their right mind wouldn't want to go back; only this time with peers and no parents? The notion was short-lived and I continued to aim for graduation, not having a clue what I would look for to study once I inevitably went on to Pasadena City College (which was not a bad choice, but the fact I saw it as the only choice made me crazy). My mother, however  had a different notion and one day she offered me a deal: keep my grades up, apply to the college and if I got in, I could go. Excuse me? Did she know she said that out loud? The short of it was that in August of 1982 (no, dinosaurs did not still roam the Earth) I packed up and moved to Oahu.

A brief bit of context and description is probably in order. The school was small; mostly a commuter school but I lived in one of the concrete coed dormitories (Ilima, aka, The Swamp-you had to be there). I had a room-mate, two suite-mates and a dining card. There was a pub (beer and wine)!!Classes were held in the building slightly over the hill and there were always rumors of a pot farm up the mountain behind the school (a story to keep the kids out?). Two of my professors would come to class, kick off their slippahs (flip-flops) and start lecturing. Students came from all over the world; many from Pacific Island nations such as Tonga, Micronesia and Palau. Our mascot was the mongoose.

One other thing worthy of note: at the time, before Ronald Reagan and his Federal Highway Funding blackmail campaign, the drinking age was 18. I turned 18 two months after I arrived. OK  it is not significant now-but it was then ;) My roommate at the time was a snow bunny from Littleton, CO and we got on famously. We had several adventures that semester, but one in particular involved a Beach Boy (not the crazy, harmonious kind), a luau, and getting "swiped" out.

Beach Boys are synonymous with Waikiki; they were a group of watermen famous for patrolling and instructing on the famous Oahu beach when the Moana and Royal Hawaiian (the big, pink one) hotels were in their prime and the views of Diamond Head were obstructed only by palm trees. Nowadays, people know the lifeguards at Waikiki as Beach Boys, but they are not quite the same animal-except perhaps in their pursuit of amorous adventures with pretty blondes (remember the snow bunny?). One of these guys had a crush on my roomie and that crush got us an invite to a Hawaiian luau. Now, do me a favor and banish all thoughts of grass skirts, fire dancers and tiny bubbles; this was NOT that kind of luau.

Luaus are traditionally thrown as part of important celebrations. In this case, it was the first birthday (which is a pretty big deal in HI) of twins, Kepa and Kapua (no, I have no idea how I remember this stuff). This luau was not held on the beach under gas tiki torches with waiters in matching aloha shirts and kukui nut necklaces. Rather,the family rented tents and tables and folding chairs, enough to seat at least a hundred people at one time. The guests were as diverse as Hawaii herself; different ethnicities, nationalities, career ladders and sociopolitical leanings came together to celebrate what, in the old days was a huge accomplishment; children beating the infant mortality odds and surviving to one year.

This luau had lots of music because not only was there a band but every relative that could play anything brought instruments and joined in. Uke players, slack-key guitarists, keyboardists and drummers. They brought gourds, pahus (drums), split bamboo sticks and voices happily to include themselves...Men and women did spontaneous hula at the sound of a favorite rhythmic oli (chant). The entire space was happy, controlled chaos. Of course the babies were the main event and we all took turns greeting them and wishing them well (they were both asleep when I met them).

No luau, modern or ancient, would be complete without the feast.This was no Hilton Hawaiian Village menu. There were huge amounts of food that included TWO kahlua pigs (cooked in the ground in imus), lomi-lomi salmon (kind of a ceviche; lomi-lomi  means massage, you figure it out), chicken long rice, two kinds of poi (sweet and not), sweet potatoes, ulu (breadfruit), opihi (limpets), haupia (the yummiest type of a coconut custard) and to drink there was fruit punch, beer, and swipe. Swipe is sort of a fermented pineapple wine. It sounds harmless enough, I know...But holy mother of god... The problem was, Swipe went down ever-so-smoothly, and I love pineapples!

Now, I will be honest by saying that while I can see the images clearly in my mind's eye, I don't remember many conversations. Mostly they were about the babies, where we were from, how did we like Hawai'i, etc. Between the dancing the food and yes, the swipe, I found myself at one point staring at my unfinished plate in dismay. Some large "local boys" nearby asked me what was wrong. "Oh nothing, I am just getting really full." Then one of them said the line of the night (maybe the decade) in the sincerest tone and most authentic "pigeon": "At luaus you don't eat 'til you full; you eat til you tiyed."  So, not wanting to offend, I gamely finished every morsel of delicious traditional and local flavors on my plate. Then I got more swipe. The rest of the evening is a little fuzzy, but we did meet some  lovely people and we took home two gallons of swipe.

Statue of King Kamehameha the Great

That night, I swear I dreamed that King Kamehameha (don't ask which one) was going through my room with his bodyguards paddling a war canoe. He was, of course, resplendent in a feathered cloak and helmet and I remember, to this day, that it all seemed so real. So much for fermented pineapple-fueled dreaming...My mistake, in the end, was that I told my roommate.

The next night we invited the other Swamp rats over to our room to partake in this new nectar of  the gods. We drank and laughed and generally had a ball. I was called out of my room for whatever reason and by the time I came back, a bit later (and sadly, more sober), I walked in to find King Kamehameha (don't ask which one) paddling a canoe in my room. Or, rather, I found my Swamp-mates had turned over our beds, stacked the frames on top of each other, put a chair front and center on top and there sat our friend Matt; rattan waste bin on his head, roomie's paisley bedspread wrapped around him, and using a broom to paddle through the "ocean." that was our room.

At first, in my less then intoxicated state I was a bit peeved; they were laughing at my dream and they had trashed our room. But after another glass (or three) of swipe, the King found his bodyguards and we started paddling, with our eyes towards Molokai.

I don't remember a particularly harsh hangover with the pineapple treat, although I might have quashed it out of my mind. I have never had the drink since; never seen it commercially marketed, or heard anyone else talk about it. Looking back on those two nights, what strikes me now is not the swipe so much as the once-in-a-lifetime experiences of which it was a part. Haole (white) kids like me were not often invited to traditional, dare I say, authentic luaus. The transient nature of college typically means that friends come and go every semester (even I left for good at the end of 1983), so the Swamp rats changed (we even stopped calling it The Swamp). The truth is, my memory may have made getting "swiped" much better than it actually was. Perhaps the stuff is nasty.

I will admit that are a few adventures from my youth that involved varying quantities of alcohol. There was the time I won (lost) a drinking game and was so far gone that a Honolulu taxi driver said "I don't take no dead people."  The time we drove into the direction of a hurricane to stock up on supplies; while everyone else bought batteries and water, we bought alcohol and munchies.  There was Mykonos (no comment), Munich (Oktoberfest) and various and sundry college parties where the drink of choice was Crystal Light and vodka (can you imagine?). Then there was the reason I didn't couldn't drink sake for YEARS (still don't actually). Ahh youth. I am happy to say that I survived, relatively unscathed, which is probably saying a lot considering I come from a family of alcoholics. Nonetheless, I will always fondly remember pineapple wine, the snow bunny and the 7ft tall Beach Boy, eating "til I'm tiyed," insane friends and yes, King Kamehameha (don't ask which one) as delicious and intoxicating (in more ways than one) memories of my life on the windward side...