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Weekend bonus shot (Monday edition), 09.12.11

beforetableaftertable

Birthday dinner table, empty and full, Berkeley, CA

At table, and in relation to the birthday girl, clockwise from bottom: grandfather; grandmother’s partner (grandbaba); adult friend/ fellow co-housing “villager”; special aunt; younger special cousin; co-housing “villager” girl cousin; grandmother; mother; co-housing “villager” uncle & aunt with boy cousin in between; special uncle. Baba behind the camera, per usual.

Not at table: birthday girl (in another room, having a post-prandial read); her younger brother (up to no good somewheres off camera); her elder special cousin (off on a bike trip for her high school); her East coast-dwelling Aunt; her Midwest-dwelling grandpa; her nearby yet far away Aunt, Uncle, & cousin; and, both furthest away and ineffably present, the grandmother, whom she never met but experiences in me daily, and her oldest cousin, whom she knew just for six months but whose shadow and light falls on nearly everything her parents see.

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Straight on ’til morning

airborne

[Ed note: this is the other shoe, the first of which pair dropped on Tuesday.]

Peter Pan’s direction to airborne children heading toward Neverland — “first star to the right, and straight on ’til morning” — always thrills, but for my daughter, the magic really started with Harry Potter. Or rather, it was Harry who cranked it up a notch. The magic itself started long before he came on the scene: it started when our girlie’s custom mix of cells started waking up and banging around, working diligently toward their destiny as the perfect receptacle for her, the one who would wait patiently through several near-miss conceptions then a miscarriage, before dropping effortlessly into my beloved’s womb, then our arms, right when we needed her most. She knew.

We all have special powers. My job as a parent is to pay close attention, and notice as many of my childrens’ as I can, that I may clear the path ahead – when it ought to be cleared.  Oftentimes the path-making is their job, in which case my job is to remove myself to a proper distance off in the underbrush, sit on my hands, and bite my tongue. Guess which job is harder.

One of my daughter’s powers is her Olympic imagination, from which I’d bet she draws a majority of her day’s enjoyment. We’re fortunate enough not to have stepped on it too much, though its care and feeding can pose a challenge. Leaving her alone to her own devices a lot helps a great deal.

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Six years today

E.U.P. • February 27, 1995 — March 24, 2005.

Above: my nephew and me, a very long time ago. I’ve posted the photograph above, some explanatory text, and the poem below each year for the past three years on this date to bear witness. He was not a month into 10 years old when he died.  It was cancer (glioblastoma multiform: brain, spinal cord).

Muted backstory about him here (you have to read about half-way through to start to get to it).

I don’t write about him much (find it hard to, though I took a pass at it here a month ago). Neither do I write about the impact of his death on much of anyone else but me, out of respect for privacy. The shorthand: much is very broken; some things you’d expect to be, and some things — precious things — you would never have guessed.  This sort of pain has a tendency toward metastasis.

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Now you see ‘em

theaterkids

Kids making merry in mama’s theater .


Either it’s childhood that disappears, or the child itself. We’ve had both in our family, and as bittersweet as it is to watch one’s children grow older, it is an unspeakable gift to do so.

I was looking through my digital photo archives to find a picture of my children’s oldest nephew, who would have turned 16 this coming Sunday. I only had film cameras when Erik was alive. I borrowed a digital one for the first six months of my daughter’s life, which were his last six, and they were not something I was in any way capable of or inclined to documenting photographically. Even though I wanted to (selfishly), to me it felt invasive and opportunistic to take pictures of him, knowing what we knew. The pictures would outlive him; we were trying to steal what we could, when we could.  An image.

My mother’s death a dozen years earlier taught me that that’s what you’re left with: photographs, various physical ephemera, video — if you’re lucky, and memories which, over time and in an excruciating process, become simply memories of your memories. You’re also left with the love you still have. And your grief.

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After Tucson, #2 in a series

[Ed. note: Please forgive another sprawling disquisition on the emotional/ethical tangle in the wake of Tucson.  I get the feeling these are the first in a long series of such things.]

This is a parenting blog, primarily. Parenting as seen through my eyes, which are those of a white middle class gal who’s fairly gender-in-betweeney, and partnered with a woman. The parenting experiences are as influenced by those matters as you imagine they might be.  Which is to say, some of the time hugely; a lot of the time, not a whole lot. The biggest influence over our everyday lives is probably the white middle class part, I reckon, insofar as we have a lot of social movement, are in the majority, usually, and are tacitly aligned with the people in power in most places our family life takes us.  It feels like that, at least.  Where we’re disempowered it’s stark, but I’m thinking mostly because of the contrast.

On the other hand, since this is a single-authored, personal narrative-type blog coming on its sixth year soon, the topical orbit is beginning to swing wider and wider. My guess is that’s often how this sort of genre goes. Starts with one focus, eventually broadens to be pretty much what’s on the mind of the author type of thing.  Often, but not always, those broader topics are seen through that original lens. Insofar as what’s on my mind is often on the minds of other parents, middle class, white, lesbian, genderqueer or not, then we all have something to share with one another here. Often we help each other a lot, and I’ve said many times that I feel I’m very much more on the receiving end of that spectrum than the giving.  Which is why I continue to value this undertaking (and these sorts of undertakings, meaning blogs kept afloat by a sincere community of people) as highly as about anything in my life these days, outside of my loved ones, living and no longer.

Like many of you, since Saturday morning’s massacre in Tucson – what a very hard word to type, but it can be called little else – it’s been in my thoughts night and day.  Most every moment with my kids, particularly my daughter, I think about the utter, utter shock Christina Taylor Green’s parents must be feeling.  The remorse of the neighbor who lovingly brought the young girl to the event: hard to fathom.  The intensity of the hell Jared Loughner’s parents must be in right now: impossible to imagine. The remorse, trauma, grief, horror, and shock reverberates out through Tucson and the Southwest and into the nation, even the world.

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A string of thoughts after Tucson

Herewith a string of disconnected thoughts and a litany of links to many things you likely already know, simply because at the moment there feels like so little else I’ve been able to do. Like so many of us, since about midday Saturday I’ve been off-and-on glued to my news sources of choice (in my case, various trusted journalists, bloggers, and Twitterers online), trying to first understand what happened in Arizona, and then why.

Like many left-leaning folk, when I learned the congresswoman was a democrat who’d been vandalized and targeted in the past (most notoriously by Sarah Palin’s PAC’s “gun sights” map, and by the congresswoman’s Tea Party opponent’s campaign imagery), I immediately assumed the gunman was a right-wing extremist.  Dr. Maddow rightly urged folks to hold off on the speculation before adequate information about him was in, and we all began to learn more about him.

In just a day or so, it has become clear only that he intended to shoot the congresswoman, he last registered to vote as an independent, and is obviously mentally unstable. As if planning to assassinate a congresswoman and everyone near her is anything but insane.  (This Mother Jones exclusive interview with a friend seems to confirm the free-form nature of that insanity.) Though he’d been suspended from his community college until he received certification that he was mentally stable and no threat to himself and others, he faced no barrier to buying his gun. Which, as it happens, was the same kind that Congresswoman Giffords –who supports “concealed carry” laws – said she owned.

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No words


Christina Taylor Greene, September 11, 2001 – January 8, 2011, Tuscon, AZ. (Photo: KVOA.com)

Except sympathy to all who grieve.

[addendum: All right, also, this statement from Christina's mother in Sunday's NY Times: “I think there’s been a lot of hatred going on and it needs to stop,” she said.]

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Mitrice

Several readers — thank you theredbaron, Jill, and COat50 — wrote me yesterday to inform me that Mitrice Richardson had been found. As in, her body had been found, life long since lost from it. (LA Times account here.)

It was another reader who informed me of her case, nearly a year ago. She thought I might be interested in trying to publicize her disappearance, partly because at the time it was getting insufficient attention from the press. That she was a Black woman mattered to me; she was likely experiencing a psychological break of sorts, untreated; also, that she was a lesbian mattered (or so, at least, I gathered from some of the news reports and readers).  All beings deserve all our love and care; some, though, get less of it from the world as it is right now, and any of us with heart-mind-gut has a special responsibility to do what they can, when they can. (Here was that first post.)

These days, I haven’t been able to do much. But I kept this notice in my blog’s sidebar since that first post, hoping someone would maybe see something or remember something or pass something on. The proverbial Hail Mary pass, the fielder’s glove tossed in the air as the ball flies past:

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