In the know

It's been said that a little knowledge is a dangerous thing. But if all you want is to be righteous, a little knowledge is plenty.

A Wii of One's Own

Video game playing in my household has never been a sedentary activity. I think that my boys, all three of them, came hard-wired with a gene that had lain dormant in human DNA for millions of years, waiting for the Japanese to self actualize. They are video game phenoms.

When my David was barely two, we got an English au pair who had apparently spent plenty of time in Cornwall video arcades. She taught him to play The Lion King. He was an amazing player from the start. He couldn't speak yet, but he developed a whole video game language....a series of barks and whoops and shrieks reminiscent of Tourette's Syndrome. He stood and leaned and squatted and ran back and forth. We once filmed him for America's Funniest Home Videos. I know without a doubt that we would've won had we followed through.

We've had every Nintendo system invented. My boys reminded me every day for a month that the Wii came out November 19th. "Yes, yes, I know. You're not getting one. I know what it will take and I'm not doin' it. Deal with it."

I'll admit it. I have standing-in-line-in-the-dark-waiting baggage. The previously-mentioned English au pair once brought home two absolutely cute stuffed animals. A giraffe and a zebra. "Oh my gosh," I said. "These are incredibly adorable. Where'd you get them?"

My first-born son, Brendan, was about ten at the time. Somehow, because of him, and partly because of my love of all things cute, cuddly and/or sparkly, we fell headlong into the Beanie Baby craze. I've stood in line in front of Little Richard's, clad in a ski parka and mittens, clutching Starbucks and handwarmers, with myriad other weirdo collectors waiting for the "bear du jour" more times than I care to admit. We've dropped hundreds, if not thousands (sorry to the poor), of dollars on BBs.

Truthfully, Beanie Babies taught my children a lot about life and entrepreneurial pursuits. Once Bren said to me, "Mom, if I get $800 can I buy a Go-Cart?"
"Well, how much do you have now?"
"Nothing."
"Oh, okay. If you earn $800 I'll let you buy a Go-Cart."

Little did I know that my dad, a coin and art collector, had been lured into the BB web. He took Bren to a weekend BB trading show in Denver and, yep, the boy came home $1000 richer. I was proud and amazed. Mostly I was horrified because Bren was able to purchase an obnoxious, street un-legal, very dangerous Go-Cart. To this day, a decade later, he is persona non grata at the Country Club of Colorado for racing across the greens late at night.

Then there was the Star Wars stuff. I recall when Toys 'R Us, very inconsiderately, decided to sell the newly-released toys at midnight on a school night. "Oh, Mom! You have to take Brent and me there or we'll get nothing!" So, gamely, I sat in my car, with pillow and down comforter, while the boys raced around collecting loot for two hours.

McDonald's added joy to my life by topping their extra-big colas with a Star Wars lid. Brendan insisted that I take him to MickeyDs every day and then he sold the lids on a very new eBay to collectors in Britain for nearly $200 each. From a $2 soda!

You can probably guess the end of the story. My sweet boy, now 21, showed up on my doorstep Christmas eve with a Nintendo Wii for his younger brothers. He had to draft a friend, stand in line overnight, but he got the goods. Just like I used to for him.

CSAP.com

Yay! The CSAP scores were published last week and we the public are able to assess how our educators are doing. I am exceedingly glad that we have a single test that tells us everything we need to know about our children. Really takes the monkey off my back.

In my district, every one of our elementary schools achieved one of the top two marks: (1) Excellent or (2) High. This should be a cause for celebration. But it isn't. My children are at a school achieving the embarrassing High mark. This has happened for the past few years and has caused a mass exodus from our school to the Excellent schools. Children are receiving a much better education there, no doubt. In return, we receive many out-of-district children which, like it or not, causes a further slide in our scores.

The funny thing is that my children were in the Excellent school for 8 years and I felt that they were receiving an inferior education there. Lots of control. No enrichment. No affirmation or fun or freedom. I forget. Where on the CSAPs do they measure musical talent? Artistic genius? Creativity? Vision? A high EQ, Emotional Quotient, which psychologists recognize as the true measure of future success? Oh, that's right. Nowhere. Monkeys, take your number 2 pencils and fill in the circles.

The CSAPs remind me of Match.com. Newly divorced, my friends convinced me that Match.com was a great way to meet cool guys. Reluctantly I put together a rather sarcastic profile, no picture because I felt that a response would indicate a certain level of bravery, and waited for my dream guy to find me. After a few weeks, I started corresponding with someone who seemed super groovy on paper. Athletic, outdoorsy, humorous, intelligent, financially secure. Eureka!

Against my better judgment I agreed to meet for dinner. Oh boy. I could tell within 2 minutes of walking in the door that a paper representation of this man had given me an incomplete picture of his true personality, to say the least. By the end of the night, I was holding his head in my lap, stroking his hair as he sobbed his way through stories of his schizophrenic sister and his abusive father. With my free hand I searched my purse for a razor blade or a hallucinogenic mushroom or a flask of Jack Daniels or anything else that might comfort me, but to no avail. I am happy to report, however, that he finished up the date not with a kiss, thank God in heaven, but by giving me a Scottish tam with fake fur hair attached. A downpayment on a future date he said.

Do I have a point here? I think I do. It's that nothing real or complicated or meaningful can be reduced to paper. To a score. CSAPs don't measure true genius, family relationships, athletic ability, talent, the condition of the mind or heart. They don't measure the capacity to learn. They don't measure the involvement or compassion of the teacher. They measure nothing except a child's ability to regurgitate a head stuffed full of useless information. They tell us nothing more than a rat walking through a maze tells us. Nothing more than a carefully-worded Match.com profile tells us. Both should be taken with a very large grain of salt.

In case you were wondering, I still have the tam.

Super Duper Heroes

Let's grieve for Ken Jordan. Let's grieve for him as a beloved son, a cherished brother, a loving boyfriend. But must we grieve for him as a slain police officer, one who died to protect us? He didn't give his life. His life was taken from him by a drunken asshole. Just as the lives of the teachers at Columbine were taken, the lives of relief workers and journalists in Iraq and elsewhere are taken, the lives of nuns caring for the downtrodden in dangerous countries are taken.

Since 9-11 we've been conditioned to worship the "public servants" who fight our kitchen fires and bust our teenagers for tinted windows. Does anyone really believe these guys chose such a career because they care about us? The same can be said about our soldiers. With rare exception, men who choose a career in police/fire/military do so because it works for them. They don't want to work at Wal-Mart, can't work at Apple. The idea of carrying a gun appeals mightily to the kid whose head was bashed into the gymnasium locker by the big jock with the cute cheerleader on his arm. The idea of dressing up in a dapper uniform and becoming part of a powerful club resonates with the guy who has a lot of testosterone, quite a bit of adrenaline, but little else to distinguish him. They love their institutional authority. They enjoy pulling over the red BMW and watching the rich guy quake in his Bruno Maglis. They relish wiping the tears of the pretty girl who didn't give them the time of day in Junior High.

I saw the procession for Officer Jordan yesterday. And, yes, it brought a tear to my eye. But not because he was a cop.

Handle with care

The snake charmer is dead. Tragically, Ali Khan Samsuddin, a fifth generation snake charmer, died last week in Kuala Lumpur after being bitten by a cobra. He had been bitten many times before and always managed to survive. Not so this time. Though originally tied to religion, in modern times, snake handling is a trade without much religious significance. The religious practice of handling snakes does still exist, believe it or not, in the American South.

In 1992, a man named Glen Summerford stood accused of attempted murder after forcing his wife to put her hand into a cage full of snakes. He was the pastor of the Church of Jesus with Signs Following. Services at this tiny church, located in the Northern Alabama town of Scottsboro, include speaking in tongues, handling fire and drinking strychnine from mason jars. But even more exciting is their practice of handling poisonous snakes as the Spirit moves them.

The faithful at the Church of Jesus with Signs Following interpret literally a passage in the Book of Acts: And these signs shall follow them that believe; In my name they shall cast out devils; they shall speak with new tongues; they shall take up serpents; and if they drink any deadly thing, it shall not hurt them; they shall lay hands on the sick, and they shall recover. When the Spirit moves 'em in Scottsboro, they get out the snakes.

Dennis Covington was a freelance journalist covering Summerford's trial for the New York Times. After the trial was over, Covington was befriended by some of the snake handlers and other members of the church. He began to attend services at the church out of curiosity and, over the course of a few months, was pulled into a bizarre world of fundamentalist Christianity where "believers" base their entire Christian identity on one or two Bible passages. Apparent lunacy is generally the result of such limited Biblical interpretation.

While mainstream Christian fundamentalism is not quite as zany, nor as interesting, as it is in Appalachia, the practice of carving the Bible up into little passages and verses that serve particular agendas is just as common. Leviticus does say that for a man to lie with another man is an abomination. It also says that shellfish are an abomination. It says don't cut your hair, don't wear clothing made with two different materials. It's okay to own slaves. Just don't disrespect your father or you'll be put to death. Take one verse, take all. Or else step back and open up to a larger perspective, one that doesn't diminish God or re-create him in our own limited image.

Fortunately, Dennis Covington escaped the cult and made it back to New York. He wrote about his experience in an amazing book called Salvation on Sand Mountain: Snake Handling and Redemption in Southern Appalachia. In the book Covington says that the snake-handling experience confirmed his long-held suspicion that madness and religion are a hair's breadth apart. That feeling after God is dangerous business. That Christianity without passion, danger, and mystery may not really be Christianity at all. I'm with Dennis on this. Let us not reduce faith in God to a small-minded, verse-picking, powerless and fearful way of life.

Kumbaya, My Lord, Kumbaya

I wept this morning. Wept like I haven't in, well, hours (my resident bachelor and I are breaking up so I've been emotionally overwrought for a couple of days). Kumbaya, according to the Gazette, has evolved from a symbol of peace to an international joke, an idiom for idiocy. Kumbaya has become the symbol of insincere bonhomie. Oh, dear Lord.

I am, at heart, a Catholic girl. Yes, I've had my way with a few altar boys, smoked a couple of Lemon Twist cigarettes, but mostly I love Jesus and I want to make him happy. So Kumbaya I sing. Often. Loudly and with gusto.

What has happened to our cherished Catholic anthem? According to wise people, Kumbaya is a pidgin English version of "Come by here." The word represents a plea to our mighty God and runs throughout the song. "Someone's prayin' Lord, Come by here."

How did such a beautiful prayer become a joke? The Gazette puts forth a few theories. It is a one-word title that rolls easily off the tongue. It sounds foreign, thus funny. It's African-American, so racists deride it, can't wait to suck the soul from it. Mainly, it's a song that summer campers and folk mass celebrants have been forced to sing for years, and they're tired of it.

Well, I used to love those Catholic folk masses. Almost as much as the Mariachi masses. I loved singing Kumbaya and all the other classics that were sung to maniacal guitar playing.

So, when I'm in bed tonight, lonely, tear-stained and sick at heart, I'll be singing to myself "Someone's cryin' Lord, come by here."

I hope he listens. I hope he puts his arms around me and comforts me. Even if the song has become a joke.

A puppeteer

I wanted to study dance in college. I wanted to perform on Broadway. I wanted to walk through campus, and life, with "jazz hands."

As a freshman, I was at CU-Boulder, living the life of a lab rat as a Molecular/Cellular/Developmental Biology major. My older brother was a year ahead of me, also an MCDB major, brilliant beyond belief. He seemed to understand the "cell" with all of its asinine complexity at an intuitive level. He understood physics, chemistry, had memorized the Periodic Table and was even capable of making hilarious jokes about it. I, meanwhile, stumbled around campus humiliated by the forehead crease left by my lab goggles, wondering what geek could help me figure out the molarity of my latest unknown.

I eventually changed my major to business, accounting more specifically. It wasn't so much that I was wildly excited by debits and credits, I'm still not, but I didn't come from a particularly wealthy family and I needed a career, not just an education. Becoming a CPA seemed a safe bet.

Because of my college experience, and maybe my perceived lack of personal creative freedom, I always find it interesting to hear what young people are studying these days. I wonder how the parents feel, especially the fathers, when they hear that their young son is going to be, say, a puppeteer. Does this revelation cause Dad to puff out his chest and smoke a stogie on the back deck? Does Mom call over her coffee klatch girlfriends to boast about her son's incredible prowess with a hand puppet?

When my son (now 21) was little he had a puppet as his constant companion. We got it at Poor Richard's and it was, sad to say, a beaver. Furry brown with lewd teeth and a hopeful demeanor. Bren wanted to take it everywhere. Unfortunately, after about five minutes, he wanted me to hold it. He was a very engaging child and whenever he found a new grownup friend on the street or in a coffee shop he would shout, in a loud Mickey Mouse voice, "Look at my mom's beaver!" This, of course, had an EFHutton effect. Everything would slow to a crawl, people would turn their heads deliberately toward me to see how I would respond.

I learned quickly to deal with this recurrent nightmare. I worked up a little beaver dance and performed it on the person nearest to me who appeared somewhat sympathetic. I would take "Beav" and bite the person's forearm and say "Come help me build my dam!"

I don't want to malign puppeteers. In fact, I want to laud puppeteers. In my immediate family, we have three CPAs, a pathologist, an attorney, a pharmaceutical drug rep. Our parents are proud of us. We all have careers and children, big houses and big mortgages, lots of demands for our money and our time. We're living the American dream!

I can't help but wonder, though, if any of my siblings ever feel like I do while I'm scurrying through the office clutching my mechanical pencil and my laptop, wearing the latest Ann Taylor fashions, picturing myself instead in fishnet hose and a bustier, standing under the bright theater lights, bowing demurely to thunderous applause. When my older brother holds his stethoscope does he secretly wish it were a paintbrush? When my sister makes her closing arguments in front of the judge and jury, would she rather be doing improvisational comedy in a little club somewhere? I don't have any idea.

I know one thing. I hope my children will pursue their passions. It may be an uphill battle. Already their Dad and I have college funds set up for each of them. We have firm ideas about which elite schools they should attend and what careers might hold promise. I imagine we'll have a doctor or two, maybe a physicist, probably a computer whiz. The IQ tests have been administered and we know where their strengths lie. But not where their dreams lie.

I have secret wish. I want a puppeteer.

Bozo the Clown

I don't know what it is. I truly don't. I've been asked many times and I am unable to give a proper defense.

There is something about Bozo the Clown that makes me scream "TAKE ME!"

Ladies who lunch: a rebuttal

I am writing this in response to the Sorority Girls post below which was written by a close friend of mine on his blog.

I hardly know where to begin. I guess I will leave the analysis of sorority girls alone as I was never one of them, neither were any of my sisters, I’m guessing neither were yours. I’m sure I have a few friends who were but I couldn’t tell you who.

I do know many society gals, however. And, yes, we threw a big party this month to raise funds for Newborn Hope. We also educated the 1600 people in the room about prematurity and gave them further opportunity to get involved with the cause.

Because we fed our fat faces, migrant workers on the Western Slope will have access to prenatal care; Peak Vista will have money to see high-risk indigent pregnant women; McKee Medical Center will have a bi-lingual social worker on staff, Penrose Community will hold smoking cessation classes for pregnant teens, etc.

In August we threw a big party called Pasta in the Park to raise funds for TESSA. We challenged each other to make the tastiest pasta sauce, dressed up as though we were heading off to Ascot, and made a bunch of money so that abused women and their children have a safe place to go. Ask Cari Davis what she thinks of the work we sorority gals do, and what she would do without us.

I think in December, it’s S-CAP. The Red Ribbon Ball. Yet another garish event designed to raise funds to help those suffering with AIDS.

In February, it’ll be the Heart Ball. We’ll raise more than $100,000 in a single night. The men will dress in tuxes and we girls will get to wear our ball gowns, maybe even our furs. We’ll once again eat delicious fattening food and dance to the mellow sounds of Moments Notice, or some other local boring band.

I was part of the organization that started the Children’s Literacy Center. Remember, we used to hold the Celebrity Dinner at Jose Muldoon’s? “Important” people served us tacos and margaritas and we made enough money to kick off our fledgling project. If you don’t know what a difference the Children’s Literacy Center has made in Colorado Springs, you should really check out their website. Or talk to any educator in town.

Guess what? The same 100 or so society women hold every one of these fundraising events. EVERY ONE. We also do the Festival of World Theater, the Dance Theater’s wine tasting weekend, the Fine Arts Center’s annual gala--all kinds of arts and culture undertakings that benefit our community mightily.

I took a graduate course on Nonprofit Management a few years ago at UCCS. It was taught by Cathy Robbins who heads up the El Pomar Foundation. She taught us that the role played by society women, the fund raisers, in the world of philanthropy is immeasurable and critically important.

The thing about your post that is the most upsetting to me is the accusation that Newborn Hope has played into the hands of the anti-abortion activists. As the person who was recently in charge of granting the nearly $300,000 we raised last year, all I can say is NOT ON MY WATCH. The ironic thing about society gals is that we are smart. Really smart. Maybe we gave up careers to marry the big guys and raise families, but we were chosen by those big boys because of our DNA. Because of our charisma. Because of our mental acuity. We were chosen by them because of our genes. Not because of our jeans.

My Advisory Council co-chair, former Kappa Kappa Gamma turned attorney who has recently published her fourth book, and I understood very well how the issue of prematurity might be linked to the issue of abortion. She and I are actually on opposite sides of the abortion issue. Be we are most definitely on the same side when it comes to prematurity prevention and the work done by Newborn Hope.

I’ll give you a little education. We give a lot of money for pregnancy tests. This has never felt to me like a great use of our funds. However, because we have several physicians, neonatal nurses and social workers on our committee (we’ll only accept them if they have a least one strand of genuine pearls and understand that Birkenstocks with knee socks are not allowed in any circumstance), the pregnancy test is a very important first step. It is imperative if (1) a provider wants to enter the woman into the healthcare system (2) the provider wants to enroll the woman in the Medicaid system (3) the provider wants to take control of the woman (usually a young girl) to prevent her from obtaining an abortion.

Those in category 3 usually are also interested in funds for “early ultrasound.” From a medical standpoint, there is almost no reason to do an ultrasound at six weeks except to show a young girl that this is in fact a “baby” living within her womb that should not be aborted.

My co-chair and I, despite the fact that we are society gals, are not idiots. Nor are any gals on our committee. We understand very well the dynamic. As a result, we changed the way Newborn Hope grants funds. We now have a rubric that we use to evaluate grant proposals. If the pregnancy test is a first step in getting the patient into Medicaid, or if it is a first step in referring the woman to a doctor who will provide “continuity of care” all the way until birth, we’ll pay for the pregnancy tests. If not, we won't. On our watch, a local medical care organization, which is actually closely aligned with the anti-abortion movement, got nothing. NOT ONE DIME. For the first time in years. Check out our website at NewbornHope.org to see who gets our money. Our evaluation rubric is posted there as well.

So make fun if you must. But this town would be a much different place without the ladies who lunch. People in the non-profit world know it. They would never belittle our efforts, because we help them achieve their ends in a way they couldn’t without our support.

If you’d like me to throw a little soiree to raise funds for one of your pet projects, maybe the PPJPC, my sorority friends and I could have about a hundred grand in your pocket by the end of next week. So let us know. Even with the holidays fast approaching, lots of shopping to do for our little silver spooners, we’d still love an opportunity to feed our fat faces! And shop for new outfits from our fine local merchants! You don’t have to ask twice!

Sorority Girls

This post was made by a friend of mine on his blog, notmytribe.com

I have nothing, nothing, nothing against sorority girls, nor society girls, they’re just fine.

I remember sororities at college. They provided camaraderie and support for women in educational institutions that had only comparatively recently become co-ed. And sororities prepped girls for the veneer surface of — I don’t know — a life of little academic enterprise after college?

Sororities taught girls social skills and cemented a community fashion. Not fashion in the creative sense but rather a pageant of the accepted norm. Beauty as a dress code that everyone could feel excited about despite it being ludicrously conformist. Sororities also reinforced the preening considered necessary to attract the ambitious corporate male who sought a domestic arrangement in much the same way that he courted a career. For girls who were neither creative, independent, nor perhaps all that complicated, sororities extended the home economics lessons to the prospect of hiring maids.

What do sorority girls do after college when their only idea of extra-curricular means to hold an ice cream social? I don’t want to demean what they do, they have children of course, and run communities. And when there is time, they do lunch. And when there’s charity afoot, these girls do as their sororities did and conduct a benefit.

I saw such a benefit recently, an enormous social function, an annual society event, the cumulative product of countless sub-subcommittee meetings. I could say that the beneficiaries of the charity could have mattered not the least, but that would in this case be most inaccurate. Two factors:

At Newborn Hope the fuzzy bunny factor is in overdrive. Money raised is “for the babies!!!” Specifically babies born prematurely in rural areas without access to urban hospital programs. The money goes for brochures and nurse training programs which teach, basically: Get that baby to the city stat!

So it’s not just that the NBH charity is for a demonstrably compelling, in-your-arms-tangible cause, but the chief beneficiaries, as with traditional sororities, are the sorority girls themselves. Making a rough estimate of the figures, I can approximate that well over half of the resources generated by NBH go to feeding itself. Throwing the big party, holding all the planning meetings, that’s the primary function. The money these women spend goes to pay for the luncheons and the overhead. It’s a great boondoggle for The Broadmoor and the shops which get to advertise through the annual function, the NBH fashion show.

The time which the girls expend toward putting it all together is also a large resource redirected. The girls are not driving the taxis nor holding any babies. These philanthropists are holding lunches, paying for the lunches themselves, eating the lunches themselves, and planning for themselves the next one. While it might be uncharitable to ask these ladies to give directly, albeit unselfishly to a good cause? Do premature babies have to settle for only a fraction of their self-serving dollar? Such sorority-style events are very similar to a retail store charity model where an advertized small percentage of sales, nothing extra from the customer’s pocket, is promised to go to a charity.

And what about the charity of premature babies? Wouldn’t a public health matter be best addressed by a public health program? Here you have rich Libertarians who would rather contribute their table scraps to the cause, rather than support taxes to improve the health system thereby resolving many health problems, among them premature births.

And in Colorado Springs there is the Christian Anti-abortion element. NBH plays straight into the hands of the Respect Life crowd. Anything that forces a pregnant woman to commit to her pregnancy, prematurely.