Random Thoughts

1. So, I'm extremely proud that I have several former students protesting Westboro Baptist Church today, tomorrow, and onward. For those of you who haven't heard, WBC is known for interrupting funerals of soldiers to promote their hateful messages that:
a.)"God hates fags"
b.) God is punishing us for allowing gays to exist in our country.
c.) People who have gay children who fight for our country do not deserve the right to mourn the deaths of their children.
What's worse is they use kids in their campaigns - at FUNERALS of dead soldiers - to make these horrific, unjustified, ignorant statements.

I can't begin to express to you how much anger I feel towards people who.. who.. are so SO stupid - who think that it's ok to hate. Period. I don't care who the target is. Compassion in me is hard to find for them. But then, there's Desmond Tutu:

"For this God, our God, everybody is somebody. All life belongs to Him. Because of Him, all life is religious. There are no false dichotomies so greatly loved by those especially who are comfortable in this life. Consequently, if you say you love God, whom you have not seen, and hate your brother, whom you have, the Bible does not use delicate language; it does not say you are guilty of a terminological inexactitude. It says bluntly you are a liar." - Desmund Tutu from God Has a Dream.

So my darlings who are protesting tomorrow - even if only in spirit - I love you for doing the right thing. You make me proud!!
And for the record, I am a staunch supporter of human rights - gay, straight, whatever.

2. I love Lisbeth Salander. Yes. She's a fictional character from Stieg Larson's Girl With the Dragon Tattoo trilogy. I know. Still, what I like is that she's so freaking smart. She's bad ass, too, but vulnerable. She's not a superhero, but she'll fight with everything she has when she needs to, even if she doesn't always win. She's counter culture and stone cold, but she's endearing and lovely.. And kudos to Swedish actress, Noomi Rapace, for doing such a brilliant job with this character.



3. This song:

The In(essential) Items that I've Collected

Dolls, rocks, plush character house shoes, stickers, coins.
Letters, poems, pictures, passport stamps.
Bumper stickers, concert t- shirts, "flair".
Pens, warm fuzzies, bad poetry.
Love notes.
Mismatched drinking glasses and coffee mugs, hand-me-down furniture.
Clothes that used to fit.
Cats.
Beer steins, mascara, stilettos, classics.
Confidence.
Tattoos.
Fridge Magnets.
Blogs.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (The Inessential Items We Collect, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

You asked for it..

Before:


After:

Gorgeous work, Lobsta. Seriously. I love it.

Voices I (hope to always) Recall

I'm going to miss my International Baccalaureate class dearly. They are graduating seniors and are off to college next year. This week ends our two year journey together, and I am incredibly humbled by their gratitude and appreciation. I love them. A lot.

As a concluding assignment, I asked my kids to write "This I Believe" essays (in the same form as NPR's 1950's program) - Christine's brilliant (as usual) idea. All of the essays are special - inspirational and personal - because they define what's important to the kids right here, right now. One of my kids, Lauren, wrote a particularly insightful essay about the importance of internationalism, especially regarding education. Her words are poignant and universal. Please enjoy this incredible wisdom from an 18 year old kid:

When I started high school, I was basically a loser. I wanted to get in and out as soon as possible, putting in the minimum effort. I didn't think I had much to learn. I could read and write and I knew what I thought about, well, everything. I knew what was right and what was wrong and what needed to change in the world. I still have a moral code. I know what needs to change. But everything else is different.

I started in International Baccalaureate (IB) flat-out disagreeing with a lot of people in it. With their ideologies, political views, study habits even. I also started out wanting to get my diploma basically to prove that I could. I still thought I knew everything, and after two years of the same ole, I figured I needed to do something challenging before I died of apathy.

And now? I still disagree with a lot of people about a lot of things, but my beliefs - and how I view theirs - have altered drastically.

This I believe - if we are to achieve world peace, we must first seek world education. Universal teaching, not necessarily of the same curriculum, but of the same ideal: that people must learn how to think. They must learn to think for themselves, and they must learn to question those thoughts. Every culture in the world gives their children a different beginning. Every country, every village, every family. Each child begins with a foundation, but to question it, examine it.. And to be willing to change it.. How we know what we know?- Theory of Knowledge (TOK) asks. And that's the most important question anyone will ever be posed.

I don't care if every kid learns Mandarin because that's not really the universal language, is it? There will always be translators of words. The hardest thing is to translate thoughts. Beliefs. How do other people think? Where are they coming from? Where are they standing? A lot of wars have been fought over that kind of translation.

I started out headstrong, and I ended up in love with diversity. I'm pretty much a firm believer in learning through experience. I feel like if every student spent two years in class next to a girl as lovely and compassionate as my friend, Yassmin, there would be fewer idiots in the hallways telling jokes at her expense. I believe that if one in a hundred classes could include the incredible variety of human thought that each and every one of ours does - this is what we do where I'm from; this is what my religion says; this is how we think differently, and the same - there would be a lot fewer hate crimes and stupid remarks and just horrible ignorance in general. There are kids in this country, state, and city who barely even see people of a different ethnicity on a daily basis. How on earth are we supposed to be a global community if we don't even get what our neighbors are saying?

I really didn't care when I began this programme. And then it started to sink in: what IB means, and through that, what education means. And I started to care. I know other apathetic students could, too. I believe that if everyone had to go through this - essentially write a college-level thesis in high school, have discussions in every class, research and study with every resource available like their lives depended on it - they would love learning, or at least take a little pride in their educations. I believe that no one would ever fault their child for wanting a college degree, or two, or four, nor would they confuse academia with elitism.

So, yes, I believe in IB. Me, my classmates, my teachers - we could really change the world because whether we realize it or not, we know what to do. I believe in education and yes, even TOK. I believe in myself, and I believe in all of the future CEO's and presidents, and diplomats I share math class with.

This I believe.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Voices I Recall, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Modern Myths: The American Dream

One of my favorite modern myths is the idea that everyone can (and should aim to) attain "The American Dream." Simply defined, the American Dream is the notion that if one works hard enough, no matter his beginnings, he can someday own a suburban home, a white picket fence emphasizing the manicured, weedless lawn. He can wear comfy slippers on Sunday mornings while reading the funnys, smoking a pipe (or vehemently not, depending on the decade), and watching the little ones frolic to and fro. The missus - the love of his life who is 40% homemaker and 60% sexy - is in the kitchen whipping up pancakes and bacon, stopping occasionally to kiss him on the forehead or to remind him about their social commitments - the bunko game at the Smith's or something. Of course there would be work the next morning at a job that would warrant a decent amount of complaining, but only enough to appear confident, productively opinionated, and/or wise so that the next rung on the ladder to a management position might be easily surmounted.

This 1950's, post World War ideal is both antiquated and far fetched. It never really existed in the first place, not to mention the fact that the image was only represented by a single prototype: male and white. Those who have attained what they deem the American Dream tend to snidely look down their noses at people who haven't, yet. They ask brutal questions like, "Why should our tax dollars pay for those who are too lazy to work?" or "Why should we have to take care of immigrants who take our jobs and our land? Tell them to go back to their own countries."

These folks did not take into account variations in pre-American Dream status such as:

Education - This is not only a question of did one go to school and for how long, but in what environment (safe, welcoming, encouraging, intellectual), with what resources (school supplies, lab equipment, healthy lunches), and with what community support (family - mom and dad, especially - and friends)?

Resources - Having money within the existing family initially gives one an automatic leg up. It also allows for more cultural/educational experiences, hobnobbing with important connections, and time (as in you may not have to have an after school job to eat, so you get to spend time having cultural experiences and hobnobbing).

Opportunity - tied to education, culture, friends, and resources

Culture - Is English one's first language? If not, strike one. It certainly makes education more difficult, not to mention finding a job and/or hobnobbing.

Sex - Men still have the advantage.

Luck - plain and simple

These variations, among hundreds of others make the myth that The American Dream is attainable for everyone completely ridiculous. More ludicrous is the idea that some deserve it more than others as a God-given reward for being righteous (of the Christian variety, of course), a very popular belief here in the South. Also, this dream promotes individuality, a trait that, in my opinion, is contrary to human nature.

It is exceedingly rare for folks to break away from the familiar lifestyles and into the upper echelon of the dream. That said, in the same breath I have to also mention that we have it a lot better here than in most places in the world. Our poverty level, though devastating, compared to other countries is minor. Our poor can find food. That, perhaps, is the legitimate American Dream.

Whenever I feel confronted by the elitists who still find ways to demean the downtrodden, I remember Martin Luther King Jr.'s comment (and I'm paraphrasing) that it is completely unfair to ask a man to pull himself up by his bootstraps when he has no boots. King also related that the suburbs are a bane to society, anyway, simply because people can climb into their cars and drive away from the burden of poverty. I think of Lot's wife - the one who has no name and who, therefore, represents any person, who was too caught up in the luxuries of Gomorrah to leave without looking back. She turned into a pillar of salt.

So here we sit - waiting for and working towards attaining some mythical, material American dream. I'm not saying that it's poor form to have money or to want to climb ladders. I am saying that humility is necessary in the ascent, as is helping others without condemnation. Community is essential.

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Modern Myths, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Object(s) of Desire

Speaking of Anais Nin.. For a while I've been hoping to introduce myself to her writing, knowing that it would be a bit of a scandal. Probably it's not something I should mention in this space, except to say that she is part of my Womanifesto. I can say that I felt some guilt at being offered the teacher discount for her book at the check-out counter. Obviously, the clerk doesn't know about Anais Nin or about the section of the store I snuck to to quickly peruse the authors; he didn't recognize my excitement in the form of a knowing smirk at finding Delta of Venus or my hurry to get to the counter.



Or maybe he did know. Maybe that's why he offered the discount.. Anyway, I'm reading her now. She's wonderful!


"Life shrinks or expands in proportion to one's courage. "
-Anais Nin

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic (Object(s) of Desire, this week) and post responses - all of us together, simultaneously, from all over the world. (Lovely!) Please visit Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana for other wonderful posts.

Women International - March 8th

Dear Friends,

A hundred years ago, a group of women got together and decided we needed a day to celebrate women globally, regardless of our marital status, our ability or inability to have children, regardless of who we are in age, color, or where we come from. In countries like Bosnia and Herzegovina, every man and boy gives a flower to each woman and girl on International Women’s Day.

We all have envisioned a day where women will speak out and speak up, to break their silence and demand peace, justice, and more equality in this world. A hundred years have gone by and women have accomplished a lot in legal protection, political and economic representation, education, and so many other areas. But the road to full equality for women is still long, and our vision of justice and sustainable, full peace in our lives has yet to come.



On behalf of our sisters who are meeting on March 8 in Rwanda and the DR Congo, our sisters who are meeting in Bosnia and Kosovo, our sisters who are meeting in London and Sydney, and our sisters in over 50 cities, I am asking all of you to join me, Women for Women International, and women around the world on a bridge on that day. I ask that we, women from all over, consciously take the time out of the working day and our personal life to celebrate International Women’s Day.

It is a time where we will join the drumming beats of drummers, our own drums, and our own heartbeats. A time where we can march, tie our fabrics together, celebrate who we are and what we have given to our families and societies, and more than that, demand an immediate peace and an end to all the wars that are going on in our lifetime and are destroying many lives.

Women need to stand and speak up because:
* 80% of the women in Bosnia and Herzegovina are unemployed when they enroll in our program
* 75% of war casualties are women and children
* Women produce 50% of the world’s food and only own 1% of the property
* 82% of the women in our Afghanistan program are illiterate
* 70% of the women in our DR Congo program have had their village attacked

These statistics show women are disproportionally marginalized in the world. It is time to change that. It is time to speak out. It is time to break our silence. It is time to demand peace and justice. It is time to join on the bridge.
Please join us. I know I will be at the Brooklyn Bridge at 12:00 pm on March 8th. Bring your drums. Bring your fabric. Bring your dreams.

Let us make that day a day the time to celebrate our womanhood, our voices, our contribution to society.

For more information on all of the bridge meetings around the world, please visit www.womenforwomen.org/bridge.

In sisterhood,

Zainab Salbi

Founder and CEOWomen for Women International

Giving

I was standing in line at one of the most frantic toy stores in the world - the one that is always out of what you came to buy, even if you're going in August, even if what you want has nothing to do with Christmas - and I was kicking myself for being there for a couple of reasons:

#1 Rich and I decided that we would make our Christmas gifts this year which we are frantically currently doing. Why, then, were we at the toy store, annoyed, trying to find presents for our son and the nieces and nephews in our family? The excuses ranged from, "Well, kids don't understand the gesture of a handmade gift. They want toys! And it's Christmas, for the love of God! (Yes, go ahead and laugh at the irony.) It takes a level of maturity to understand that 'I love and value you' does not have to mean 'store bought and popular'," to "while noting that consumerism is way out of control in our country and that what we need is not more 'stuff,' we really wanted to give a meaningful, handmade gift to our loved ones because, honestly, we couldn't think of anything good enough to buy. We were being hypocrites by making everyone else's gift but his!"

#2 I hate toy stores, especially at Christmas. They beat the joy right out of gift-giving.

The Advent Conspiracy asks people to shop less and give people something more precious - your time, your attention, your love. Give presence, not presents. I love that idea, but it goes against the West's culture of gift giving - of black Friday and 'finding the best deals', of waking up at four in the morning and standing in line in the cold to get the "perfect" gift. It's easy to poo poo the West for being so materialistic, but at the same time I think that the sentiment is in the right place, even if it is misdirected a little.

Herein lies the dilemma. Giving, something that should be lovely and selfless, becomes stressful and problematic. And that's mostly why we decided to only give handmade gifts this year - to combine the present and the presence. The toy store was out of the item we wanted to buy for Jack. Was it a sign? Maybe. Who's to say what Jack will find under the tree this holiday.

As for the rest of our family, hopefully everyone will love their handmade gifts:

Love, Ginger and Rich

This post was inspired by the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic and post responses - all of us together at the same time, even though we are continents apart. (Lovely!) Introducing Anu, Ashok, Conrad, gaelikaa, Grannymar, Judy, Magpie 11, Maria and Ramana.

Times Remembered

“Remember : Don’t jump off the roof.”

My dad said this to me at the end of our last phone conversation. Actually, he says this every time we part and has done so for years. To my husband he says about me, “Make sure she doesn’t jump off the roof, ok?” This is his way of concluding a conversation. It’s his, “Take care” or “I’ll see you soon” or any other end of an encounter- a complimentary close, a final remark.

“Don’t jump off the roof” is also a literal warning, as in when I was a little girl, I did jump off the roof of my house on his watch, and the impression of that event has left a 30 year old blemish on my dad’s psyche that is only apparent to me, as he delivers that mantra every time he leaves a room that I’m standing in.
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Postulate A:
Oftentimes memories are simply interpretive imprints that mark beginnings of character definitions.

Example 1: The day one gets braces on his teeth is marked as the beginning of one’s teeth being straightened, and can be defined as the moment one began to hope he might become more attractive someday. The memory of getting one’s braces removed, as follows, is the beginning of learning how to live as one who once had braces and then braces himself for one of two experiences: a.) finding out that braces indeed made people more attracted to him as evidenced by the hoards of other straight-teethed people beating down his door to be near him or b.) realizing that having braces changed nothing except, possibly, his overbite, and now he has to cope with the understanding that there is no such thing as a sure method of becoming more attractive.

Either way, the memories that act as beginnings of life-defining moments have burrowed themselves into the brain; no matter how many times or from how many places they jump, the synapses will never be the same.

So it goes with remembering.
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“One.. two..three..No, WAIT!” A breath. “Ok. This time I’ll do it. One..two.. three..Not yet!” I was sitting at the top peak of our single story house, my legs dangling off the side. I wanted to get down, but I was forbidden to use the ladder. That was the rule. “Ginger, if I let you come with me onto the roof, you must promise that you won’t climb down the ladder by yourself.”

I promised.

My father was working on the air conditioner and didn’t have time for my wandering spirit or my wayward bladder.

My memory of that moment is very clear. I stared at the ground pretending that the passing of time was my ally – I imagined just how it must feel to jump off, to land, and to be on the ground remembering what it was like to have jumped. “It will seem like I flew down.” I put myself safely on the ground in my mind and in doing so, strengthened my resolve to go ahead and jump. I couldn’t conceive of going back, nor could I imagine asking to climb down the ladder after making such a fool-proof agreement. “Of course, I’ll mind you, Dad. No, I won’t go down the ladder. I promise.”

Clearly, this – the jumping - had to happen. I steeled myself as, for the last time, I whispered, “One… two.. three!”

I jumped.
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Postulate B
The problem with successful beginnings is that they make a person feel invincible.

Example 2: If a person jumps off the roof of her house as a kid, lands and sits down, thinks, “Ok. That’s that,” and then goes inside the house to resume normalcy, the rest of her life is filled with that expectation – that if one imagines she can do something, isn’t breaking any solid promises, and feels confident that a little leap is worth a result, her life is filled with similar attempts. In a way, it’s like a personal dare: I dare you to kiss that boy. I dare you to go to college. I dare you to get married, to buy a house, to have a baby, to sell away your comfortable situation and start it all over again. I dare you! And after you’ve done it, imagine how relieved you’ll feel!
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How scary it must be for one to realize how little control he can have over impressionable beginnings. Even more frightening is the realization that one had no idea, until, for example, the day that his daughter jumped off the roof, that that was the beginning of how she would interpret herself: as that girl – the one who would jump off the roof, the one who would find her way around the promises, the one who would extract herself from the uncomfortable circumstance, the one who would consider flying as the first step in the resolution to find normalcy.

This post was written for the Loose Bloggers Consortium, a small and feisty(!) global community. We write weekly on a common topic and post responses - all of us together at the same time even though we are continents apart. (Lovely!) As soon as I get my act together, I'll link everyone here.. :) Until then, you'll notice the others hanging out in the comments.

BeadforLife

I'm in Florida at a conference for work today and was pleasantly surpirsed to see advocates for BeadforLife selling necklaces and bracelets in the lobby of the hotel! Their necklaces and bracelets make excellent gifts, and Christmas time is the perfect occassion to help people in need. Here's What BeadforLife is about:


BeadforLife eradicates extreme poverty by creating bridges of understanding between impoverished Africans and concerned world citizens. Ugandan women turn colorful recycled paper into beautiful beads, and people who care open their hearts,homes and communities to buy and sell the beads.The beads thus become income, food, medicine, school fees and hope. It is a small miracle that enriches us all.




Our beaders and tailors are primarily impoverished women who are hardworking, intelligent, and strong in their desire to improve their lives. They make gorgeous handcrafted paper beads from recycled paper and turn them into necklaces, bracelets, and earrings. Because the beaders use recycled, colorful paper, the beads help prevent environmental degradation. What was trash becomes beauty, money, food, and hope.
Click here to see how a bead is rolled

Our goal is for our members to be independent of BeadforLife within 27 months by being able to support themselves within the Ugandan economy. To assist members in launching their own small businesses or in creating new revenue streams, we provide entrepreneurial training, facilitate savings accounts, and make business funds available.

I addition to buying and selling the beads, BeadforLife sponsors Community Development projects in health, vocational training for impoverished youth, affordable housing, and business development. These projects are supported with the net profits from the sale of the beads, and support not only beaders, but other impoverished people living in Uganda. See how many people we have touched in our first years.

BeadforLife is guided by the following principles:

Creating businesses and jobs through entrepreneurial development is a more sustainable approach to poverty eradication than providing aid. Rather than becoming dependent on handouts from abroad, members build their skills and long-term capacities through meaningful creative work.

Concerned citizens in resource-abundant countries care about the issues of extreme poverty and are willing to get involved.

Paying the members fair trade prices allows them to meet their daily economic needs. Investing 100% of our net profits in community development projects for impoverished Ugandans allows for a long-term sustainable future.

Working together enriches all of us.

American Gods

Christine introduced me to this book yesterday. More than wanting to read the book, I think the idea is interesting - that the God(s) of yore, whatever name you give him, can't survive in America for all of the demi-gods - money, Internet, reality TV shows, talking heads, patriotism, etc. - that distract us. I'm not feeling especially spiritual at the moment, but I can say that I understand the lightning speed chaos that stems from worshipping such idols. The intriguing thing is we don't even know we're doing it. In some cases, we've snowed ourselves into believing that we can be faithful in the midst of such distractions, and feel, dare I use the word, "righteous" in our justifications that are rooted in distraction.

From Publishers Weekly
Titans clash, but with more fuss than fury in this fantasy demi-epic from the author of Neverwhere. The intriguing premise of Gaiman's tale is that the gods of European yore, who came to North America with their immigrant believers, are squaring off for a rumble with new indigenous deities: "gods of credit card and freeway, of Internet and telephone, of radio and hospital and television, gods of plastic and of beeper and of neon." They all walk around in mufti, disguised as ordinary people, which causes no end of trouble for 32-year-old protagonist Shadow Moon, who can't turn around without bumping into a minor divinity. Released from prison the day after his beloved wife dies in a car accident, Shadow takes a job as emissary for Mr. Wednesday, avatar of the Norse god Grimnir, unaware that his boss's recruiting trip across the American heartland will subject him to repeat visits from the reanimated corpse of his dead wife and brutal roughing up by the goons of Wednesday's adversary, Mr. World. At last Shadow must reevaluate his own deeply held beliefs in order to determine his crucial role in the final showdown. Gaiman tries to keep the magical and the mundane evenly balanced, but he is clearly more interested in the activities of his human protagonists: Shadow's poignant personal moments and the tale's affectionate slices of smalltown life are much better developed than the aimless plot, which bounces Shadow from one episodic encounter to another in a design only the gods seem to know. Mere mortal readers will enjoy the tale's wit, but puzzle over its strained mythopoeia.

I don't mean to bash faith or religion, or secularization for that matter. I, for one, can't be on any high horse crusade when it comes to spirituality. No one can be, actually (and ironically).

A few years ago, I audited a class that proposed that the reason people/nations war is because they are afraid of losing their cultural identities, that clinging to one's norms in acts of desperation precipitates violence. This makes me think about our country, the "most powerful nation in the world," and what exactly our "norms" are. Are we being clingy? And if so, for what purpose? And do we really want to protect our brand of godliness?

The Women's Bean Project

Speaking of Christine, last Christmas, one of the gifts in my goodie bag was some cookie mix from a group called The Women's Bean Project. I peripherally knew about this organization, but decided to do some more investigating when I finally made the cookies. I at least owed it to Christine who always puts so much thought into her gifts. It turns out I'm glad I did my homework, and now I'm eager to support them. In fact, I plan on doing some of my Christmas shopping at their site this year. The cookies were awesome and the cause is fantastic!!
Check it out*:

Their Mission: To change women's lives by providing stepping stones to self-sufficiency through social enterprise.

Their Vision: Women’s Bean Project strives to break the cycle of chronic unemployment and poverty by helping women discover their talents and develop skills by offering job readiness training opportunities.With this stepping stone toward success, the women will be able to support themselves and their families, and create stronger role models for future generations.

Whom They Serve: The women hired at the Bean Project have histories of poverty and unemployment; they lack hope and self-confidence; most do not have a GED or high school diploma; most are single mothers and have been on public assistance; many are recovering from experiences with substance abuse and incarceration.Women find the Bean Project many different ways, but most often are referred by graduates and current program participants.

Parole officers, shelters and other service agencies all refer women to the Bean Project.

What They Do: The Women's Bean Project is a social enterprise that offers a transitional job in gourmet food manufacturing designed to provide immediate income, arrange support services to overcome barriers to employment, and teach the job readiness skills needed to get and keep a job. Program participants come from backgrounds of chronic unemployment and poverty, and the program helps them develop the work and interpersonal skills needed to function independently in the workplace and community.

But the Women's Bean Project does not hire women to make and sell bean products. We make and sell bean products to hire women.

Women produce the goods that are sold nationwide as they develop the work and interpersonal skills needed to function independently and effectively in the workplace and community.

The Women's Bean Project:
* Meets basic needs and removes barriers to employment by paying a wage and facilitating support services
* Offers life skills that enhance a woman's ability to govern her own life
* Arranges services that increase employability such as GED and computer classes
* Provide hands-on training in the fundamental job readiness skills required by entry-level employers

Why They Do It: The tools gained during their stay at the Bean Project empower women to create better lives for themselves, provide their families with hope, and contribute to a stronger community

* As listed on their website

Living Juicy

Today I was digging through the closet in the front room. Ahem. I was panicking because I couldn't find Toddler Jack who was digging through the closet in the front room. When I found him, he was acting like a dog intently burying a bone, only instead of dirt being flung behind him, he was hurling cassette tapes - The Alarm, Motley Crue, New Order and Stevie Nicks - over his shoulder. Instead of a bone, he was burying a box. As I moved closer, I realized that Jack was burying a birthday card box that I received on my twenty-first birthday. Being significantly older than twenty-one now, I had forgotten that I had kept this treasure, and one glimpse of it sent me tripping down memory lane.

The Box Card Occasion:
I had to work the desk in the lobby of Coleman Hall on my 21st birthday. When I got the job, I was glad that I could work at a desk where I might be able to study, especially during the night shifts. But that day I was feeling antsy, as one might when she is pacing back and forth by herself in a silent lobby on her twenty-first birthday, waiting for her shift to be over so she can go hang out with her boyfriend - climb trees, sit in a coffee house, and do other freeing things that college students do with boyfriends when they are twenty-one.. or something like that. My pity party was becoming pretty convincing, and that's when Carol showed up.

My Friend, Carol:
She came with a cupcake - at least I think it was a cupcake, I can't remember. Carol was known for handing out half-eaten chili dogs at Christmas, so it could've been anything really. Was it a snow cone? Anyway, I'm going to remember it as being a _____something better than a chili dog/cupcake/snow cone_____ with a single lit candle in the middle. She sang to me right there in the lobby, a capella; presented the treat; and handed a very surprised twenty-one year old the box card.

Describing the Box Card:
Outside - Checkbook box covered in a thin layer of burlap, tie-dyed, handmade paper designs glued on top. Edges fringed.

Inside - Blue and orange handmade paper background, with the word "HAPPY" cut out of fabric, glued on top of the paper. Glitter confetti and gold, spiraled pipe cleaners loose within, and a scroll also made out of handmade paper.

Bottom - similar to description of outside, except for the little tag that reads "Carpe Diem Cards"

All - Completely made by Carol, except for the checkbook box itself and probably the burlap, though out of all my friends, I would vote Carol to be my "Most Likely To Make Her Own Burlap" friend.

Scroll Inscription:
"Ginger:
May your 21st year of life be filled with bushels of joy-filled juicy moments that just make you want to do the Happy Dance! Today I do the happy dance in your honor, for your life brings much joy and encouragement to mine. Peace, sister! Carol"

13 Years Later:
I sat down on the bed, forgetting for a moment that Jack was throwing cassettes (precious antiques such as Peter Gabriel, Europe, White Lion..) and that I was was supposed to be the enforcer. I allowed myself to remember that time when living was "living juicy" - that is being so full of life, that, like a bursting ripe navel orange, if one were to take a bite out of our lives, creativity and love and all the things that make our spirits abundant, would come gushing forth, dripping down our smiling chins, so much so that others wouldn't be able stop themselves from wanting a slice..

I smiled and looked at my son who was still at work flinging cassettes - U2, AC/DC, Huey Lewis, Heart.. Instead of getting on to him, I picked him up and cuddled him. I apologized for ever burying the box in the first place and explained that he should never bury it either. We should never bury our treasure.

The Message:
Live juicy, folks. Let the succulence of your life drip down your faces. Be creative - create. Work with your hands. Most importantly, love, love, love, LOVE. And to my friends and family, I am doing a happy dance in your honor today, for your lives bring much joy and encouragement to mine.

Hat Hazard

"Pink polka-dot panties, a black lace bra, and a cowgirl hat," she mumbled to herself the next morning. Then she smiled.
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Three days before, she sauntered into the camp castle, relieved after a hot day in the adobe city where she and her cohorts had found what would soon be known as the infamous cowgirl hat. They had wandered aimlessly about the town, stopping briefly to visit the oldest church in the country and to peruse the sparkly trinkets in shop windows. They stumbled into and out of little side-street bazaars and nooks, where natives laid out their wares and promised handmade authenticity for every piece: necklaces from Chiapas, rugs from Pakistan, stained glass wind chimes from Texas, baseball caps poorly stitched with the town logo in the colors of the local flag.. and on and on and on.

It was among the scarves and bags that she found the hat shop. She had almost given up on buying anything until the shopkeeper knelt down to the lowest shelf and dug out one last dusty item - the hat.

It was inexpensive, as far as hats go, but had a little bit of flair and a lot of moxy. "I want to feel free this week," she thought as she pushed the hat down on her head. "I want some dazzle in my life - some turquoise and whimsy." She felt that wearing a new hat might alleviate some of the drudgery of her life, some of the monotony and heaviness that having responsibility brings. "Yes. A hat might be just the thing to help change a person's outlook," she thought. She adjusted the brim a little and then shyly turned to her friends for their honest appraisals.

Their faces lit up. "That's the one," the first said, the other nodding in agreement. "A very nice pairing."

Two men walked by and turned their heads.

"I'll take it," she declared.
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The camp grounds were stunning. After a long journey, it was pleasant to see what would be home for the next week. The main building - the castle - was perched mid-mountain among the fragrant pine trees and weathered rocks. Beautiful, parturient rain clouds crept across the sky, heavy and confident.

"Here is where God lives."
...........................................................................
They were there for work. At least that's what their employer paid for. Truly, the day sessions were great- alive with collaboration and nuance. Each member of the circled group shared their varying ideas - good ones, ones that could logically be implemented into any strategy. Each supported the others, and a bond of friendship and trust enveloped the group. Work definitely got his money's worth that week and more. The members of the group were natural friends - all of them - which meant that after the work, playtime beckoned with her coy little index finger and a smirk! What could they do but heed her invitation? Yes. Of course they had to go.
..............................................................................
Each evening was it's own entertainment, as is likely to happen in a place where God lives with clouds and trees, rocks and camaraderie. Dancing, games, frolicking and hiking, and all around revelry claimed each night. "It's Carnivale!" they cried, understanding both the frivolity and danger of making such associations. Everyone was wearing proverbial masks. Everyone embraced the freedom in their spirits. Everyone danced for the first time in years.

That's why she had to do it.

There were natural hot springs down the trail. Until the last night she had successfully resisted them. She had been envious of the ones who went the night before, who had been caught in a torrential rain storm, but who were tucked snugly into the warmth of the springs, enjoying the juxtaposition of the earth's sulfury pools and the sky's refreshing version of the same . The last tie of responsibility - of being married to an expectation - was wearing thin. This was her last chance to be frivolous this week. Plus they were begging her to go, and they were being very persuasive.

Perhaps it was the intoxication of being wanted that sealed it.

Under the light of a glowing moon in an electrified air, she ran to her room to find something to wear. She hadn't brought her swimsuit. She hadn't brought any shorts. Really, it wasn't a huge leap to put on what she did. At the last second she grabbed her hat - confidence in turquoise and straw - and skipped out of the room to meet her friends at the hot springs.

She felt a little giddy at her own bravery as she shimmed out of her jeans revealing the pink polka-dots to them. Even more brave was the moment when her shirt came off, the black lace an adornment over her illuminated skin. Her last bit of resolve came from the moment she pulled the hat down on her head.

They were looking at her, men and women alike. She didn't care.

And then she eased herself down among them, smiling and brave, into the welcome arms of nature.

Everything, all at once

Absolutely, this is a brilliant time for everything to happen at once! I am so excited to meet many of you who visited recently, and fully intend to come by your addresses, to veg on your virtual couches soon. Also thank you for being so lovely and supportive! What a great community this is!

I'm afraid I'm enduring a lesson of patience at the moment. Metaphorically, I'm standing in a batting cage with a broken pitch machine that spits the baseballs out one after the other - clearly too quick for anyone to manage - and I can't even pull back to swing. Lucy and Ethel are there, too, and everything goes horribly and comically wrong, and there's a laugh track and lipstick, and hair is falling out of place. It's all lovely and fun, mishaps and hilarity ensue, but at the same time there is real life to deal with, beyond the camera, where people are hired to do mundane things like bring coffee and do filing. I'd love to live in the sketch, to laugh and play and read blogs, but unfortunately I have some "have to's" to attend to right now instead.

I know it's a lousy excuse - that real life is getting in the way of me hanging out with my new friends. I do promise to visit soon! In the mean time, here are some lovely friendship quotes from women I very much admire. May they remind you of you and yours:

Anais Nin:
Each friend represents a world in us, a world possibly not born until they arrive, and it’s only by this meeting that a new world is born.

Dorothy Parker:
Constant use had not worn ragged the fabric of their friendship.

Edith Wharton:
I suppose there is one friend in the life of each of us who seems not a separate person, however dear and beloved, but an expansion, an interpretation, of one's self, the very meaning of one's soul.

Edna Buchanan:
Friends are the family we choose for ourselves.

Fran Lebowitz:
[Friendships] are easy to get out of compared to love affairs, but they are not easy to get out of compared to, say, jail.

Louise Bernikow:
Female friendships that work are relationships in which women help each other to belong to themselves.

Nancy Spain:
There are people whom one loves immediately and forever. Even to know they are alive in the world with one is quite enough.

(quotes borrowed from Women's Media)

Storms

It's stormy here, in more ways than one, but we must remember that storms are not catastrophes meant to decimate us. They nourish the earth with boisterous heat and blinding light, and send us indoors to contemplate the nature of ourselves.

Beaten

In a world where one can find any "conclusive evidence" to back what she is saying, it is surprisingly difficult to actually form a cohesive argument. What I mean is that people are emotional, reactionary creatures. We have a deep seeded need to be "right" in order to justify our actions, and we'll use any argument to prove ourselves. We are especially good at manipulating emotions by using words such as "God! Justice! Freedom!" and any other store of "evidence" we've gathered from our cultural norms.


Unfortunately, sometimes when we are at our wits end - when we know we're sunk, in over our heads, dead wrong, up shit creek (you get the idea)- the most most moving counter one can come up with is, "Oh yeah?! Well, my dad can beat up your dad!" This is ultimate desperation play, and, by the way, is a total lie for most of us. But she - the opponent - didn't know that.

Lately, I've been fighting a battle. Seriously. I've gone "to the mat." And literally, too - as in, one on one, face to mat. Because my proverbial nose is so smushed in, and I can't breath anything but sweaty, mildewed vinyl mixed with the sulfury smell of my own proverbial blood, I think it's safe to say that I lost. K.O. Game over. Roll credits.

As many of you know, I am sort of a wanna-be activist, though the only "march" or "protest" I've ever participated in was when I found myself blissfully lost in DC, and I accidentally stumbled into a march for Haitian rights. I did stop by the "Stop the War" camp in Parliament Square last time I was in London and shared an umbrella and a chat with some very interesting people who were staying there for a season. (Read more about the company I keep and then tell me I'm pretty)*

I want to be conscientious of issues, even if I am not participating in a march. What I'm learning - and this pertains to the fight - is that it is ridiculous for me - an average person, of average intelligence and height - to assume that I can win an argument against a full fledged activist. I don't have the wherewithal or the gumption. My battle scars aren't deep enough, and my tears are too salty. I also learned a little about cruelty and compassion, that if one can successfully mix the two in just the right amounts, one is assured "victory".

It doesn't matter what the argument was that caused me to be lying limp and broken on this mat, her shadow lording over me. Her win was in her concluding remarks - full of righteous indignance and God and poetry. I mean, who can argue with that? She won. Not because she's smarter than me or right, but because she knows the correct way to argue - the winning rhetorical combination - the right one, two.

It turns out it takes a few good ass kickings to learn how to respond to certain bullies, even ones who claim that "God is on their side". It also turns out I am a very good student.

*I am a member of a list (hardly active on my part,but very active on my friend, Mark's) that advocates true community cohesion and decision making, what they call a Campaign for Real Democracy. My teaching job is quite a platform for activism. The International Baccalaureate Program I teach with promotes international mindedness (not globalization), in an effort to help people embrace cultural differences. "Tolerating" differences implies that a negative judgement has been made. We must do more. Some of my friends in Arizona "break the law" by leaving gallon water jugs in the desert for people who are trying to cross the border and who sometimes die of dehydration in their efforts. (The activists from the Restoration Project were acquitted, by the way. It turns out leaving water in the desert so that people don't die is a difficult case to prosecute morally.)

Define "Win"

It occurred to me the other night that I had sort of won, in a way. I've always been the girl who has been happy to play, with the understanding that the "results are not what matter, it's the experience.." That's the politically correct way of saying, "You probably won't win, Ginger, so how can we crush your spirit the least?"

I was about to say that it didn't bother me, not winning. But all of a sudden memories of not winning came flooding back, and it turns out I feel a twinge of bitterness at defeats like not making the final cut for the Lincoln Junior High School Junior Varsity Lady Warrior Basketball Team. I convinced myself that the reason I didn't make the team or the squad, or whatever the competition, was that I didn't really want it badly enough. If I had had more desire and dedication and was less interested in making Merek Rogers notice me, (so that someday I could become Mrs. Merek Rogers - specifically Ginger Rogers (glitter!))- then I would've won my spot.

So, I've won at something recently. I said in a previous post that I applied to be an international teacher. What I actually did was sign with a company that helps teachers find jobs in international schools. At the time I felt like it was a no brainer: Fill out lengthy paperwork packet, update resume, write two narratives, with these send in letters of recommendation, send in official transcripts and certificates, make Rich write something called a "spousal letter" and send it, and mail a check for processing listed materials.

I completed all transactions and checklists and was promptly notified that I was accepted into the company's program - stamp red 'APPROVED' on file.

Until the other night (and thanks to the clarity that Christine and Jamie often bring to the dinner table, along with magnificent pineapple pie), I realized what a big deal it was. What I thought was compiling paperwork and jumping through hoops was actually a company telling me that I'm worth representing- that when attending interview conferences, they recommend me for the job, and the schools who have read my file before meeting me understand that what they are looking for is a personality fit.

I should feel relieved - accepted - elated!

Unfortunately, what I feel is anxiety. Apart from this potentially being the biggest change in my life - definitely bigger than marriage and in some ways bigger than motherhood (changing cultural norms is like that)- I've made myself completely vulnerable and open to rejection when the personality is not a perfect match, or I'm not qualified enough, or if the money isn't right, or if my interview goes sour thanks to me not wearing the right pinstriped pencil skirt.

My life is good. I suppose that's the ultimate win. I love my family and my home. I very much value them. Probably I should find contentment here. Also, I understand that in leaving all of this, I'm taking my family into the insecure unknown and that is always scary. In this case, I think the experience of "going for it" is what matters, to an extent. But more than that, I very much need to win my spot. The idea of not winning - not finding my place - is very much spirit crushing.

Whimsical Roughshod

Darlings,

Whimsy, I'm afraid, is on an extended vacation. Those of us who are close to her understand that really she's been in a terrible predicament - one called boredom (or is it fatigue?) - and she's so disenchanted with the YOUniverse that she's locked herself up in a boarded up house with no intention of coming out anytime soon.

What once was stilettos and music - glittery embellishments!- has given way to ramblesome talking heads and stunning anxiety inflicted by said heads who drone on about things like North Korean lunacy, Iranian anarchy, the death of popular kings, money money money money.. Not to mention it's unbearably hot outside.

It's no wonder she's locked away with no hope of inspiration in sight.

I know. I know. You roll your eyes and say, "She does this all the time, that Whimsy. She says she's done with the glitz, and then she unlocks the door soon after and sends one of these illegible, entirely translucent letters. Everyone knows what she's up to! Did you know I found a spec of glitter in the envelope?! _sigh_ What is there to do, really? What a scandal, she is!"

You're right, of course. The letter is the first step. But it takes sweet coaxing and a fair amount of patience to lure her out of her self-inflicted dungeon, to allow her to feel secure enough in such an insecure place, to emerge.

Until then may she be inspired by the likes of Lilith, who would not be held down by tyranny, and may Athena see to the injustices, both near and far, with a firm hand and an open heart.

Be patient, Lovelies!

-A. Ginger Moth

Deciding To Be Poor In Order To Be Rich

Yesterday, for the first time in a long time, I told the story about how my partner, Rich, and I met. It's the silliest story in the world, one that involves "just knowing" that we'd be together before we had even met, keeping a box of "Rich" trinkets - name tags he had worn, a sticker he had given me, and a napkin that represented the first time I touched his arm - hidden in my sock drawer, and then the first time we danced, or really danced around a conversation. What sicky-sweet, wholly endearing lunacy!

That story led to the one about living in a migrant worker shack, and selling blood to eat, and picking wildflowers for presents because we couldn't afford much more.. etc.

In my mind, these stories are highly romanticised. I see them as a time when I was happy and carefree despite having nothing or maybe because we had nothing. And yes, I do remember having to decide which bills to pay. I remember the sting of embarrassment when my credit card(s) were rejected when I tried to buy books for school, or when I had to count pennies at the gas station to see exactly where I had to stop the pump. If my car died or got towed, I wouldn't be able to drive for a month, or until I could save enough to get it fixed or un-impounded. The idea of actually going out to dinner was hilarious - as in Taco Bell was a date.

The great thing about this time in my life was I didn't consider myself poor. I knew I always had a place to stay (even if that meant going back home). I knew I wouldn't starve. AND I had so many friends in similar circumstances that we were creative in how we shared. We lent (read "gave" because there was no expectation of paying anything back, unless it was rent) each other cash - shared bank loans, crashed at each other's places, fed each other, and spent a lot of time simply hanging out because that was the entertainment we could afford.

Was this community?

Without going into too much detail, I had (I suppose) the opportunity to revisit my life pre-SUV, pre-responsibility, and pre-suburbia. I could imagine what living in community really could be, though I would have had to do it carefully with a one year old Baby Jack. I could almost concretely see my life in a community where I left all of my "comfortable" security (and the lonely solitude that comes with it) to be in a place where I had the time to "hang out" with people again. I would be vulnerable, exposed - two qualities that fly in the face of my culture's defining value of 'pulling yourself up by your bootstraps."

In short, I would have to sell back my version of The American Dream.

Please don't misunderstand. I'm not talking about patriotism here. I do love my country. It is made up of good, hardworking people. Somehow, though, I think we got a little bit distracted by what we could own, rather than seeing the value in what we have or can be. I absolutely am the poster child for the typical independent, self-reliant, white picket fence American. It's not necessarily a bad thing, but for me it isn't THE dream.

___________________________________________________
I applied to be an international teacher and was accepted into a program that will match me to schools in Europe and/or Latin America. Rich has proudly applied to be a stay at home dad - his dream. Though I'm eager to go RIGHT NOW (so much so that I am literally grinding my teeth together in anticipation and have sent cover letters and resumes and applications to at least 15 schools), I will probably have to wait another year. One year. Next year.

I'm not sure where we'll go. I don't know how we'll live without two incomes. I don't know what will happen to our 403B's or how fast we can sell everything we own, save our pots and pans and shoes. But we've made the decision. We're going. And I am so happy about the prospect of it all that I can hardly breathe.