the great language barrier reef

We just finished up week three of the Busiest-Month-in-the-World for us, and are embarking on a week with 2 concerts (Coldplay and the White Stripes), Alpha (how will I sing after screaming all night?), babysitting another friend's child, and today, my first knitting class.

The class went really well, so well that I wished some person had taught me how to knit instead of learning it from a confusing book. I think I would have learned a lot more and cursed a lot less. But it was neat to have a really diverse group of ladies there, and two who came to help teach. Everyone learned how to make a slipknot, casting on stitches, the knit stitch, and we even had time to bind off the stitches we made. For non-knitters, the last sentence probably looked like "we learned how to make a blah, blah on blah, the blah blah, and we had time to blah blahdy blah!" Trust me, it was a lot to learn in less than 2 hours, so I hope everyone's brains didn't shut down like mine does after learning a new skill. I found, also, one of my fatal flaws as a knitter: I am horrible at correcting mistakes. It's not that I don't make them--oh no, but all the ones I made in the past were made in secret, and I would just rip out all the stitches and start over or the perfectionist in me would just not be able to sleep at night. I still think sometimes about the little row of wrong stitches in A's baby blanket I made, and caught when I had already knit about 30 rows ahead. Too late to fix then, since the needles were micro-small and I was sick of the dang thing about a third of the way through it. Anyway, I "helped" a couple of people fix their mistakes today, which was more like hmmm, I have no clue how you did this, or how to make it right again. So let's just knit a little bit to add to the gaping hole...

So the knitting class was a success. The rest of the weekend was either worrisome, stressful, or just plain annoying. A has been sleeping unnaturally long (problem? maybe), to the point where even I woke up before him. Either a growth spurt or he has diabetes or is just plain wiped. We also went to a wedding in Washington, D.C.---like, really IN the city, not on the outskirts. I don't like driving in D.C. because it was designed by people who rode horses, overtop of a swamp, and designed to confuse armies intent on sacking the place. They shouldn't have bothered, really. If it was to become a seat of government, they should have figured it would be as convoluted as possible without the addition of roundabouts and state-named and numbered streets in no particular order.

Not only was the wedding in D.C., I say, but on the same day as 100,000 protesters were going to descend on the city, both for and against the Iraq war, AND the IMF and World Bank, meeting there too. I read the news reports the night before, and nearly had a panic attack. But then I thought, the bride really isn't going to care who is there and who is late. I didn't. I was getting married, dangit! People really prayed for us though, because we got there 45 minutes early, found a parking spot, and had time for a coffee too. Amazing.

The ceremony would have been really lovely if I had a hearing aid and could speak Latin. It was at a very traditional Catholic church, one that was not happy with the changes of Vatican II that made every Mass be in the native language of the congregation (or is it Supplicants?). Thank Martin Luther for that bit of reform, albeit 400 years later. At first I was excited that the Mass would be the way it was for a thousand years, like visiting an Orthodox church or something. Plus, I had a handy booklet with the translations of what was going on, even with pictures to show what the priest was doing. And little bell-symbols for when the bells rang.

Then, after the beautiful bride walked down the aisle, and we faced the altar to start, I heard these barely audible words from the speakers: "Mrnumur, mmummmalammmaiunmm, etummmuninmuninm,..." Everyone stood stock-still to try and hear, but the floorboards creaked like every one of them does in my house when I am trying not to wake A. The entire, hour-long service was like this, with some kneeling, standing, fake-out kneeling (called genuflecting in the book), and bell-ringing that sounded like somebody's old-time phone was ringing. "Hello? Oh, yes God, it's you? You'd like us to turn up the speaker volume? But it's all in Latin anyway, what do they care? Hey call back later, we're busy up here." That's probably very rude and I should be more respectful, I guess. But no, I think it was rude that nobody could participate in any part of this beautiful sacrament, even to smile blandly like you do when someone from another country is trying to talk to you in their language. I just felt lost and bored, and stared at the stained glass windows and the high gothic ceiling, like some kind of serf dragged out of the wheat fields.

I lived and studied in Rome for a semester in college. I knew enough Italian to get basic needs met, and tell people off who were bothering me (and say, "don't touch the paint!" to children watching me work in the park). When D and I went to Italy, we went to a Mass in St. Peter's Basilica. This Mass was in Italian, because that's what they speak there (thanks mk for the insight!). I felt more at home picking out words in the Italian mass there (because I could actually hear them), than I did at this wedding in my own country. It hit me that this must be what all people feel like who aren't used to church, haven't been steeped in passing the offering plate, praying, raising hands when singing praise songs, flipping to the right passage of scripture when they just say the book name and chapter, you name it. Forgive me, God, for forgetting this. For laughing like I did when my roommate in college asked me where Jesus is buried. I'm the one who sounds stupid to say, "Oh, he rose from the dead and is alive in heaven."

On another topic, a friend worked in the children's rooms this morning at church, babysitting the little kids while their parents were in the sanctuary. I asked her which rooms, and she said, "The toddler rooms for a little bit, then 3's and 4's, and then I was in the infantry." There was a pause, and then I could hear my father-in-law saying, "Pull up that diaper, boy, and wipe that stupid toothless grin off your face!"

Time to go read some Russian spam, and work on my artillery lessons.

missing buffy

I'm listening to the soundtrack for the Buffy the Vampire Slayer musical episode. D is animating an Elvis figure for the game he's working on. Laundry is being done. A is sleeping. All seems right with the world. One might think I am manic or something, since I have spent much of my time lately in a state of shock and anger. Now I am just a bit numb, spent my rage a bit and have a little time to hope.

In a couple of weeks, I'll be teaching a knitting class at church--just a few folks getting together to learn a difficult skill. I've been looking up illustrated instructions online, and it's really breathtaking to see how many resources are out there. There's a whole site that has animations of casting on, knit stitches, etc... There's another site that has ninety-some pages of free patterns for sweaters, scarves, baby clothes. I'm still a self-proclaimed novice at this; I have only read and completed one complicated knitting pattern for a felted ball for babies, and the rest of my projects are trial-and-error variations on a rectangle. Once math becomes involved, my eyes glaze over and it takes twenty read-throughs to understand how to get it done.

I used to be an A student in math, but now I don't really practice anymore. The math-land in my brain has gone fallow. Cutting mat board for artwork is a real pisser now: complicated fractions, extra breathing room for the piece so little slivers of paper don't stick out, centering. Eugh. It puts me in a terrible mood. So now I plan ahead, and do my artwork on paper that is a normal size and shape, so I can buy a pre-cut mat...

Blah blah. "I think this line is only filler," Willow sings. What makes the Buffy musical so amazing is not that everyone has terrific voices, or dances well or anything, but that it's such a pivotal episode to the season, every line is important (even Willow's above)--some funny, some really poignant. Buffy is sick of the humdrum and the chaos of her life, and she's avoiding taking the next step. How many times have I been there? I miss watching Buffy because no matter how far-fetched the surface problems were (hell-mouth opening, anyone? demon-makes-everyone-in-town-sing-broadway?), the episodes were really about something everyone could relate to. Feeling invisible, over-concern about what people think, fear of telling the truth, wishing for revenge. I don't watch tv anymore really, because I haven't been captivated by anything since Firefly was (briefly) on.

Before I go, A's word for rice krispy treats: bee-bee teets. So much more exotic, don't you think?

catastrophes

Well, I am feeling a little better than from my last post. It doesn't really matter what I feel, or how I think about things ultimately, but writing it all down helps me clarify my own thoughts, purge them from the system.

With the 4-year anniversary of 9-11, my thoughts go back to that time when everything changed in one day. I had a 2 weeks' head start on 9-11, because I fell down my basement steps and broke my tailbone, keeping me out of school for 3 weeks. This might not seem like a big thing, but my incapacitation led me to a near nervous breakdown. Panic attacks, paranoia, severe, crippling depression and of course, the literal pain in the ass that made me unable to sit normally for months. Can't put a cast on that, you know.

I witnessed nearly everything on TV on September 11, watching from the sofabed in the basement until I couldn't take it anymore. The second tower fell and I just couldn't watch it. Shock and horror. I sat (well, lay) amazed later on when the entire congress stood together and sang "God Bless America."

Our President was still something of an unknown quantity then. I was glad to have someone decisive in charge, who seemed like an ordinary guy whose ideas I liked. Well, more like a person whose ideas I didn't hate. I hate politics, and despise politicians as a whole. Like watching a train wreck, I am still fascinated by politics though. I guess I like getting pissed off or something.

Now, I am just disgusted by the whole thing, bottom to top. Last year's election and the years before it turned our country into the biggest group of haters, mostly of each other. "You'd have to be an idiot to vote for ______ (fill in the person)." "You can't be a Christian if you vote for ____." Bush was either more evil and diabolical than Hitler, or he was seen as a mental midget reading "my pet goat" to some second-graders. And Kerry, poor man, mired in some stupid crap about Vietnam. Did I care about Vietnam? Did anyone? Campaign managers for Bush laughed all the way to the bank with that Swift Boat stuff.

I really hate the fact that I only had 2 (or 2.4 counting Nader) choices for the most important job in the world. I hate the fact that both choices forced me to give up something I felt strongly about (oil dependency change with Bush, less restrictions on abortion with Kerry). Even though I feel like the war with Iraq was poorly-planned, I still felt like it was necessary to get rid of Hussein. The "anyone's better than Bush" argument just didn't resonate with me, after hearing for so many years that anyone was better than Clinton, the expert of slipperyness.

So I went with the abortion issue. A chance for life for some little people, versus the possibility of a better environment for those little people to live in. Maybe I am stupid for believing that, stupid to hope that some good would be done in four short years. But voting is just giving a person the benefit of a doubt that they might do a little better than the other flawed person running for the same job.

Now, what do I think? I think the same thing I thought years ago when I voted in my first election: politicians suck, the media are vultures, the citizens of our country are swept into a frenzy of hatred over two political parties that are basically the same beast with different-color heads. Poor people and minorities believe lies by the Democrats, and middle class people believe the lies by the Republicans. But the beast gets its food from big corporations and unions and wealthy individuals and political interest groups, so it isn't going to ultimately fight for either group of people in the long run. Cynical, yes, bitter, yes, but show me where I am wrong here.
Where is the city full of minorities, run by Democrats, that has eradicated drug problems, has great schools, has happy, thriving citizens? Where is the middle-class community run by Republicans that wouldn't be razed by the highest bidder?

And now it comes out that sending active-duty troops into New Orleans was a sticky political situation, because it would be perceived as a takeover of a Democratic-controlled state by a President of another party. But since when has our President cared what Democrats thought about him? Just send the guys in, for goodness' sake, and worry about the political crap later. He's going to get hit by criticism anyway, as it is part of the job, so why not do the decisive thing and get control of the city, and then deal with the fallout? One starts to believe the paranoid ramblings of Kanye West, in a way--not that Bush doesn't care about black people, but that he doesn't mind letting a Democrat take the fall. The problem is, it's not just one person who is affected by all this dithering. It's those half a million people whose whole lives were destroyed.

I am ashamed of my country, of my elected leaders, of a system of poverty and neglect that keeps people in the gutter. I am furious that people keep buying SUV's and huge cars, propping up horrible regimes like Saudi Arabia just so they can look cool and have more space for their one kid to sulk in. The cost of a tank of gas for one of these Hummers can feed a family of 4 for 2 days, buy cleaning supplies and personal hygeine stuff from the Red Cross. Where are our priorities here? Why was our President still in Crawford 2 days into this crisis? Why hasn't he come out and said something more than "this is unacceptable," and be straight with the people? Why doesn't he just wake up and fire the FEMA guy and at least make it look like he understands what people are pissed about? So many things he could have said, or said better, all through his presidency, to make people feel like--dare I say it--he feels their pain. Ugh.

katrina depression

I have been in a post-9-11-type stupor today, and every evening after A goes to bed, as I obsessively check the drudge report online, and click through all 763 pictures a day on Yahoo of this horrible disaster. I've had horribly violent refugee dreams, and wake up knowing that what these people have experienced was even worse than my nightmares. I have wept many many times, seeing pictures of exhausted babies and moms, who have nothing and nowhere to go, no way to help their poor children. Families separated, living in squalor worthy of the worst tenements in history.

So many conflicting emotions are in my head--not at all like 9-11, when all I wanted was to blast those bastards who did it into a powder. No, this time my thoughts are at odds--why didn't anyone act on this right away like they did for the WTC, especially since they had several days of advance warning? Why weren't all those drowned school buses used to get out the poorest people, away to wherever the hurricane wasn't going to go (that was what Drudge was asking)? Why weren't people stopped from bigtime looting by having adequate amounts of soldiers at the ready, instead of forcing overworked policemen to choose the lesser of evils? The broken windows theory--if there's one broken window, people feel like they can go ahead and break all the rest--applies on a grand, horrible scale here. If I can walk out of a store with a TV (which will be totally useless to me because there's no power to run it), so I can also roam the streets, terrorizing my fellow citizens.

On the other hand, people were told to leave the city. All the projections of a disaster like this were that no one could really survive if they stayed in the city. The Superdome was the last resort. (incidentally, I sincerely hope they burn that hell-hole to the ground after everyone is cleared out.) And I have to be honest, I have never liked New Orleans like I love New York. Even though they are both cess-pools in some ways, with just as much corruption, I find Mardi Gras to be just repugnant exploitation. So I am a prude, you found me out. Same reason I will never set foot in a Hooters. If I had the money, I would buy every one of them and burn them to the ground too. I'm just in a burnin' mood.

I don't know what I really expected to come of a disaster like this--I am 99 percent sure that Baltimore, where I reside, would descend into even deeper chaos than poor New Orleans if such a tragedy occurred here. I mean, we don't even need a hurricane to have rampant violence and evil. But still, somehow I must have thought that people would see that this situation requires a different attitude...but even as I write this, the whole idea strikes me as incredibly naive--of course people are going to exploit the weak, of course drug addicts denied their mainstay will go completely apeshit. Of course, in short, people are inherently inclined to evil.

So why am I so shocked? Why am I so deeply ashamed? I am used to seeing and hearing of barbarism around the world, and throughout history. It seems a precious few places in the world today have no hint of it, when you hear about some suburban psycho who kills his pregnant wife, or turned out to be a sexual predator/murderer even though he's been Mr. Normal for 10 years. Yes, even our cushy suburbs have people in them, which means we have the same capacity for untrammeled evil.

And it's not a racial issue per se, unless you're talking about the human race. I do feel very suspicious that the city was left to fester so long because it's "just poor black people" left. Pretty much, the people who are left are the people who are always left. The poor you will always have with you, Jesus says. He didn't say, because they're always there, you should ignore them and let them rot. He himself was poor, the poorest of the poor. But our country doesn't understand poverty, truly. There is always, ALWAYS in the back of our minds, the idea that poor people can make their lives better, and just choose not to because they are lazy or stupid or both. I can't believe that, even though it is in my mind as well. Even if a poor person can make their lives better, which I do believe, it takes so much more than just determination on that person's part. If all you have ever known is poverty and ignorance, if all your friends and family are as poor as you are, how on earth can you get out of that without superhuman effort, without change going on around you as well? And if the rest of the people in the world are content to let you suffer, and call you stupid and lazy, there really isn't much energy left to try and prove them wrong; you're too busy trying to stay alive.

What angers me most out of all these horrible, despicable things, is that children were in the middle of all this, seeing it all, forced to sleep in urine, living next to rotting dead bodies. They were afraid of nature first, then afraid of desperate men. They were not protected by our government, whose main charge is to keep order and protect the weakest citizens from the strongest. In some sort of mock-memorial to the horror in Beslan a year ago, about 60 employees of a school in New Orleans and their families were held captive there for 2 and a half days. Armed thugs broke in to the school, looted the place, locked the people inside, and fired shots at boats trying to rescue them. The thugs eventually stood down because of the military, and the people were airlifted out to an overpass and waited forever for food and water. A 2 year old girl was one of the captives. Some of the thugs had gone to that school when they were younger. It wasn't some airlift-some-disgruntled-Chechnyan-wackos scenario, but people from their own neighborhood becoming the terrorists.

Increasingly, in my angrier thoughts lately about dads who left their children, babies abandoned, violence and despair in New Orleans, I have wished for God's justice, for him to come through on the promise that in the day of his judgement "it would be better to have a millstone tied around your neck and be cast into the sea, than for the man who causes any one of my little ones to suffer." Psalm 139 also comes to mind, "Oh that you would slay the wicked, O God!"

Who would be left if he did, though?