An Open Letter to Katy Perry

Dear Ms. Perry,

The first time I heard your music was when you were on Saturday Night Live a few years ago.

No, that's not true. I heard "I Kissed A Girl" and I HATED it, but mostly because I thought it was such an unfair rip off of Jill Sobule's FABULOUS song by the same name.

I'll admit it, though. I think you're adorable. At first I thought you were just another gimmick. another girl in a ridiculous get-up, singing to amplified noise and, although creative, without a whole lot of talent. After all, you were just doing a song about high school romance, and making it awfully sordid and gross. I wasn't interested.

And I maintained that position for quite a while.

Maybe it's the innate sense of shock that somebody only six months younger than me and I can have such dramatically different lives. That here I am, a mom of three with a dusty degree and a quadrillion-times-edited resume, and there you are... wearing rotating candy bras and performing for stadiums full of people. Living an altered version of my own dream from half a lifetime ago. It's a little weird.

But then you started doing things with your celebrity. I would dare anybody not to absolutely adore you after your performance with Jodi DiPiazza at the Night of Too Many Stars last year.

I might not have been crazy about your music, but I put myself in my own shoes from fifteen years ago. I thought to myself, when I was an awkward kid, bullied constantly, judged for my clothes and my hair and for simply existing... wouldn't I have needed you then? Would I have found comfort and compassion in your music, in your persona?

And I'm pretty much positive the answer would be yes. Maybe instead of rocking out to Tori Amos and Fiona Apple when being a weird girl without a lot of friends, without a lot of hope, I would have been belting out "Firework" along with you.

And that is why when I heard about your apology to Chief Keef, you broke my heart.

Here you were, an adult woman, my age, but still with the ears and the hearts of millions of young girls, and you were apologizing to a teenager.

...who threatened to beat and sexually assault you.

And here I am, an adult woman who secretly adores you. Who, in the recesses of my own imagination, hangs out with you, and parties with you, and sings duets with you. (Not your songs, sorry. We'd sing mine.) And I feel utterly betrayed. And I am heartbroken for the millions of girls who also read your apology.

Because you had nothing to apologize for. You said you didn't like Chief Keef's song.

And you are entitled to your opinion. (And you're right anyway, it's a crap song. Not just content wise. Chief Keef should listen to some Aesop Rock and Sage Francis and grow up.)

But if some teenaged boy can't take any criticism of a song called "I Hate Being Sober," he should get out of show business. And if he's going to respond to the criticism of a woman by threatening her with sexual violence?

How, in any world, should that merit an apology from you?

What you've said to me, and most importantly to all your young fans, is that they should be scared. That they should watch what they say, and do, and think. Because if they don't, somebody will hurt them. And then it will be THEIR FAULT.

You haven't just given permission to millions of boys to "punish" the girls in their lives with sexual violence, you've told all the girls who look up to you, many of whom are already victims every single day, that they are on their own.

You've told them that you, a grown woman of 28, are afraid of a seventeen year old boy who has threatened to punish you for having an opinion.

You've told me that no matter how successful I might have been, no matter how loved I might think I am, I am still a victim. That I need to shut my mouth and listen to the menfolk, and if I get lippy I deserve, to paraphrase Chief Keef, to have the shit slapped out of me.

Yours truly, circa 1999, writing my own
earth-shattering, sorrowful ballads on the ivories

But what really breaks my heart is that none of that is new information. No new messages, there. It's the message I got every day when I was a fourteen year old. When I was bullied and intimidated and eventually sexually assaulted. I knew it was my fault, because I shouldn't have done whatever it was I did to make them angry. Shouldn't have worn those clothes, showed so much skin, spoken up in class... shouldn't have ignited the light and let it shine bright enough that they noticed me.

I have grown up a lot since I was that scared, lonely girl.

And one of the things I loved about you was that you didn't seem like you had. You still spoke her language, you still knew her heart and her soul. You could reach out to those kids who I was once upon a time.

And now, it's like another door has shut. Like if my fourteen year old self opened up to you, I might get sympathy... but you would be another voice in the litany of voices telling me how my pain, my trauma? My complete and total isolation? My own damn fault.

I'm breaking up with you, Katy Perry. I'm taking my chart topping duet and giving your part back to Jewel.

But if that sonofabitch DID hurt you, or DOES hurt you, I would stand by your side and hold your hand and let you know that I've got your back, sister.

And it breaks my heart all over again to think that I'm more likely to offer you that shoulder than karaoke some Rent with you on some ill-planned weeknight.

Think about it, Katy. Think about the twelve year old girl in my city who was gang raped and had a video of it posted to facebook, and had to wait six months to see those boys even indicted. Maybe there's somebody else you should be apologizing to instead.

Sunday Blogaround - 5.26.13

Hello, and welcome to another edition of the blogaround!!!

I hope you're all enjoying a long, pleasant Memorial Day weekend! M and I are putting off our annual Memorial Weekend baseball game by a few weeks so we can see my favorite team. (Go Bucs!) So this weekend is all about cooking out in the rain. :)

And now, to the blogaround!

"Talk About It" - The Writer Revived
Elizabeth writes about campaigns to raise awareness for epilepsy, but that's not all. Her daughter also has epilepsy, and it's not what you might think. Learn all about it from the Writer Revived! Bonus pictures of Chris Pine!


"The Children Belong to Us All" - The Kopp Girls
Kyle writes about his reaction to the tornado in Moore, Oklahoma. I think we can all agree with every single word he said, and it might help to read it knowing how universal our desire to protect our children and our concern for each other can be. And that is one good thing that can come of this.


"Why Do Men Keep Putting Me In the Girlfriend Zone?" - [insert literary reference]
This. is. great. I've been hearing this complaint since I was eleven- "friend zoned." How dare I want to be friends with a guy without having it be about sex? How cruel are women for wanting to be friends instead of... more? Great piece.


"It's time to look at a terrarium full of baby chicks" - Reasons My Son Is Crying
Recognize that attractive mother-daughter duo?


"So I paint my nails pretty regularly..." - A Still to Slow Down Time
I love this dude. I love this kid. I love that the world is getting more open minded, more tolerant of different ideas... less mired in our outdated ideas that "normal" means "typical," or "average." That "different" is bad. This is the future I want to live in.


"Why Society Still Needs Feminism" - help. i'm alive.
I've attempted to put exactly this into words- exactly the thing about the keys. I remember being taught to hold my keys like a weapon, splayed between my fingers. Just in case. This is extremely well put. That said, feel free to read my own explanations of the same topic.



Also- this. I can't wait for this guy to make a million more of these.

Five Years

Stolen moments on a special day

At seven o'clock, the phone rang. It rang four times before I managed to get it to my ear and croak out a greeting.

It was as crazy as I look.

I had been in bed for six hours, and I knew it was only by the grace of God that I hadn't spent that time puking my brains out instead.

There's a reason you don't actually want to have your bachelorette party the night before your wedding.

It was the manager of one of the hotel where we had a block of rooms, and he was calling to tell me that he was going to charge me for every single one that hadn't been rented.

It was going to be $700.

Screaming for forty minutes on the phone with that hotel manager, and his wife, and a few other people, kept me from vomiting just a little bit longer. As my oldest and dearest friends snuck past my bedroom to find some coffee or toast while they waited for the day's insanity to commence, I vomited spectacularly.

The meal that nearly killed a groomsman...

And that was how my wedding day began.

Five years ago, as of this moment, I was taking M's anti-nausea pills- diagnosed for his chemotherapy treatments- so that I would stop puking long enough to set up the hall where we would be married.

The centerpieces were already made, but still in a few pieces. There were balloons- GIANT balloons- to be filled, lanterns to be strung, chocolates to be strewn around, linens to be steamed.

I wandered in a daze in and out of the kitchen, where Aunt Genocide was construction a spectacle of a cake, the likes of which may have never been seen before or since. Aside from the epic quantities of cake in the concoction for display, there were also half a dozen sheet cakes of the same. Batches and batches and batches of chocolate butter cream frosting, hundreds of gum paste forget-me-nots, one of my favorite flowers. And although we had not once discussed what would top the cake, hand dipped chocolate covered strawberries- on tuxedo dipped with a little bow tie, one in white, with a stem like a veil, a gum paste forget-me-not affixed like a bouquet.

Aunt Green watching Aunt Genocide make some magic

Just when I felt that I might finally be past the after effects of my utterly spectacular night of karaoke and penis crowns, my bridesmaids convinced me that I needed to wear makeup for my big day.

Yeah, that was when that decision was made.

And despite my protestations, mascara was applied. And a giant gloop of it fell into my eye.

As I cried and whimpered and sobbed and wept and begged for somebody to help me before I was covered in mascara tears and blind forever, my bridesmaids laughed their asses of at me.

And then I got married.

I wasn't covered in mascara...

We said "I do..."

We became husband and wife...

We danced...

Everybody danced...

We ate like kings...

We celebrated with our best friends...

We ran off into the night...

And we lived happily ever after.

These have been the best five years of my life.

The BSA, Equal Rights, and Rape Culture- End of the Month Controversy

I found this image online, but can't locate a credit. My thanks to the artist.

I have three daughters. My husband wasn't in scouting as a kid. It's possible that someday I might have a son, but let's face it, I'm not likely to have much to do directly with the Boy Scouts of America.

But the anti-gay policies of the BSA do matter to us as a family.

You see, the Boy Scouts are voting on whether or not to allow gay children to continue scouting, openly. There have been gay boy scouts since time immemorial. A friend of mine was one of them. And it certainly doesn't change their dedication, their morals.

The Boy Scouts are generally an organization that does a lot of good. When I hear that somebody is an Eagle Scout, I am impressed. Genuinely. That is no simple task, and it speaks volumes of a person's character.

But what happens when a gay Boy Scout becomes a gay Eagle Scout? He'll no doubt want to give back to his community. That's what Eagle Scouts do. And one way to do that is by leading a troop.

However, if the BSA has it's way, the ban on gay scout leaders will continue.

So what is that really about?

It's really about rape culture. About my daughters.

You see, as a society, we tend to put all of the emphasis of sexual responsibility onto girls and women. We blame them for being assaulted, for wearing short skirts, for being alone in public, for joining the military, for having a few drinks, for letting their boyfriends into their apartments, for walking the streets at night.

What we're saying to them is, "Men are animals who cannot control themselves. They are bad, and you must protect yourselves against them. If YOU are not careful, a man will rape you. And then it will be your fault." That's what we tell young women, what I was told when I was younger. What I learned first hand.

And what the BSA is saying by banning gay leaders is, "Men are animals who cannot control themselves. They are bad, and if they are gay then boys must protect themselves against them. If we do not keep gay men away from our sons, they will rape them. And then it will be our fault."

In reality, this isn't an anti-woman message. This isn't an anti-gay message.

This is an anti-man message.

This is a set of lessons that men are bad, they can't help it, it's what they do. That, oh well, maybe they'll hurt somebody. How is that their fault? It's their nature!

It's the same story we heard in Steubenville, when those poor, poor boys had their lives ruined by that awful girl who pressed charges against them after SHE had the audacity to drink among friends and expect that nobody would treat her body as an object for their use and amusement.

It's the same story we hear year after year in the military, about some awful bitch who ruined her commanding officer's career by claiming that he abused his power of authority when you know she wanted it.

If you are not familiar with the movement of Eagle Scouts returning their medals
in protest of this bigotry, definitely check out this collection of stories.

These stories are lies. We all know they're lies. But if we tell those stories, we have a problem that's easier to solve. When we tell those stories, the problem is that some people are asking for it, and we can keep them from harm's way.

That's an easier problem to solve than an entire culture than essentially gives men carte blanche to force themselves sexually on others, and then throws up it's shoulders and says, "Boys will be boys."

I believe that men are fundamentally better than that. I believe that they have control over their actions, over their urges. I believe that men can want to have sex with something- a woman, a man, a tail pipe or vacuum cleaner or horse or ANYTHING- and not have sex with it.

And if men are fundamentally bad, if there really is no hope for them, if we really must constantly protect ourselves from them at every turn, if every human being must live in fear of being violated by a man who has been granted any opportunity, then the Boy Scouts of America ought to disband. Putting that many dangerous individuals together can't be a good idea.

By that logic, a boy scout troop is a rape gang in waiting.

But if that's not true, if men have the capacity to control their actions, than the BSA can and should remain. And if the Boy Scouts believe it is their duty to help others, doesn't that include others who are gay? Shouldn't gay men have he same values? If the BSA pledges to remain mentally awake, doesn't that mean to open their minds to the possibility that they could have made a mistake? If they swear to remain morally straight... doesn't that mean not to judge, not to discriminate, not to condemn?

So why do I, as a mother of girls, care about this?

I care because when an organization as large as public as the Boy Scouts of America tell them that men are bad, they will take that lesson to heart.

When an organization like the BSA implies so strongly that women should fear men, they will.

Any maybe they should. But not because of this. Not because men are animals, incapable of self control.

Instead they should fear mankind, its incomprehensible desire to "otherize," to discriminate and separate. They should fear the animal nature inside of all people to condem others for imagined crimes, for differences that mean little or nothing. They should fear men who would use differences to advance some agenda, some policy of oppression and hatred.

Not for those differences in and of themselves.

I care because if we stop acting as though gay men are all predators, maybe we will be a step closer to acting as though all women aren't potential victims.

Maybe we'll be one step closer to ensuring that my daughters will grow up safer than I did.

Is This Heaven? No, It's Iowa.

With thanks to Grinnell College

This past weekend, we went to Iowa for Grinnell College's commencement.

It's not just that I absolutely love college graduations, we had a reason. Poppa was being presented with an honorary doctorate.

He was very happy about this honor.

I know, he's so dignified.

Really though, he is. After watching him blush through his introduction, I recommend watching his whole address. It's only four and a half minutes long.

It was amazing to see everyone. It was the first time since M and I got married that all of us have been together at the same time. (That's five years on Thursday.)

We arrived Saturday afternoon, and caught up with Great-Grandmommy and Great-Granddaddy, as well as Great-Great Aunt E, Aunt Green, Aunt Genocide, Grandmommy and Poppa

The college wined and dined us in grand fashion.

The kids went to bed, Aunt Something Funny arrived, and we spent a lovely night together. For real, Grinnell really knows hospitality. We had a spectacular stay.

Poppa's old advisor took the entire gang out for brunch.

Aunt Something Funny taught the girls to play a new game...

Then after a brief rest, it was time for a picnic on campus.

It's a gorgeous campus, even in the balmy, oppressive heat.

Then we all gussied up for dinner at the President's house. (No, that's not it behind us. That's Grinnell House, where we all stayed.)

After a trip to the Observatory that turned into attempted waterboarding of the SuperMommy family by the sky, everyone raided the kitchen for snacks, drinks, and ice. It was a marvelous time.

The next morning, it was up and off to commencement.

We watched some truly wonderful speeches- including a poem performed by Sarah Kay. It was great.

Then Poppa was presented with his honorary doctorate, to match his real doctorate, but not plaid. (...because everything that has anything to do with Carnegie Mellon is plaid. The MASCOT is plaid. Excuse me. "Tartan.")

Poppa delivered a killer speech, link above.

And then, once again, my camera died.

We picnicked again, we laughed and chatted and then bid our tearful farewells. The SuperMommy family piled back into our minivan and trekked back to Chicago, where nobody is going to feed us amazing stuffed slivered eggplant or eight layer chocolate coffee torte, or take us out for eggs and hash browns.

Poppa should get honorary Ph.D.s every year.

Sunday Blogaround - 5.19.13

Hello, lovely readers! And welcome to another edition of the blogaround!

Today, the family and I are in Iowa, road tripping to Poppa's commencement. No, he hasn't secretly been attending university. Actually, his alma mater is presenting him with an honorary doctorate, and the whole family is using it as an opportunity for a bit of a reunion. Oh yes, there are going to be pictures.

In the meantime, please enjoy these gems from the week's blogs!

Enjoy the blogaround!




"The Origami Master's Revenge" - The Spin Cycle
It's always wonderful to see you children becoming full fledged people, capable of coping with a variety of new problems, new situations, new social interactions. It's even better when you see your children becoming people who are just going to win at life.


"Six Things You Can Do Instead of Shaming Unmarried Women for Having Children" - Racialicious
It's generally good advice for dealing with any parent who is in any way different than you. Which is to say, all parents. But the intro about the attitudes towards single parenthood in this country are worth reading all on their own, regardless of those guidelines.


"Video: Matt Kemp Gives Disabled Fan His Cap, Jersey, and Shoes" - SFist
This kid has terminal cancer. He can't talk. His father told the third base coach about it, and told him that Kemp was his favorite player for his favorite team. Kemp heard the story, and near the end of the game he headed over. The rest is on camera. (And there's more about it here.)


"Coming to Terms with my Femininity" - The Crafting Hobbit
Okay, this isn't from this week. But this is Irene of the Crafting Hobbit, writing about her decision to have a prophylactic bilateral mastectomy. You know, like Angelina Jolie except that she's a normal person living a normal life in the United States. She's not a celebrity, she's not wealthy. She's the mom of an autistic child, and a crafter, and an all around nice lady who happens to carry that genetic mutation that gives her an 87% chance of a very aggressive form of breast cancer. Her blog has followed her journey from the decision to have the surgery through her recovery- which included spending her Mother's Day in the hospital due to a post-surgical infection. A post surgical infection that she is STILL recovering from. Definitely go read everything from this post until the present, to get a real and honest understanding of what this issue is, what the surgery is and what it's like, and what normal women in America who don't have the benefit of Ms. Jolie's unfathomable wealth can do when faced with this issue.



"Ticking Time Bomb" - Megan Rosalarian Gedris
A simple illustration of Angelina Jolie's decision to get a prophylactic bilateral mastectomy.


"Food Addiction" - Finally Mom
I laughed out loud. It's about as good as 33 words gets.

"Strange, and yet familiar" - The Writer Revived
S is only a little older than my big girls, and I can't remember the last time I rocked one of them to sleep. It's remarkable how quickly you get used to things once they're normal- just putting the kids in bed and basically walking away is the norm around here. But I would like, just once, to transport back to those nights, rocking my girls and singing them to sleep.


"Why isn't New Orleans Mother's Day shooting a 'national tragedy'?" - theguardian
Did you hear about the shooting at the Mother's Day parade? About the 19 people shot, including children, or the fact that the shooter is still at large? We really need to ask ourselves why we can stand by and accept some horrific acts of violence and not others. In no world should this be something we sweep under the rug.


"Mother shuns Disney Princess ideal and dresses daughter up as five REAL heroines from history to commemorate fifth birthday" - Daily Mail
...and it's FANTASTIC. I may attempt to recreate this feat with my own offspring. I love these so hard it's ridiculous.

Our Last Family

Me and M at my friend's wedding

Last night, a dear friend's brother lost his battle with cancer.

This is tragic under any circumstances. But for the SuperMommy family, it hits very close to home.

One year ago, Kayvon experienced a resurgence of his brain cancer. It had been almost twenty years.

After six months, he decided to end his treatments. And now he is gone.

I only ever met him at my friend's wedding, barely a year after M got his own diagnosis. I certainly didn't get to know Kayvon. But I am grieving for his loss.

Cancer turns you into a sort of family.

When you hear that somebody has, or has beaten cancer, there is a closeness. An understanding. I know what you're going through. At least a little.

When you find they have the same family of cancer, the closeness closes in a little. There is an intense sisterhood among survivors of breast cancer- any breast cancer. Because so much of an experience has been shared.

Each detail brings you closer together. Each little connected part of your story.

Kayvon survived his brain cancer for almost twenty years. He didn't have the same cancer that M did, he didn't have the same life circumstances. But part of them are the same, members of the same family. They are part of a very small club, the survivors of brain cancer.

Only now, that family has lost another member. And everyone living with and beating their disease has lost something as well.

I am so sorry for my friend, for her other brothers, for everyone that knew Kayvon.

And I am terrified of the future.

And I am also grateful. Grateful to know that there might be twenty years. That if M has the same time that Kayvon got, his youngest child will be nearly an adult if his story shares that ending.

And I still am nearly drowning in grief at the thought of it.

Everyone gets a life. I hope that Kayvon's was defined by his actions, by his character and his love and the people who knew him.

I hope we are all so lucky.



In loving memory:
Reesa Brown
Kayvon Safavi

Rollie Ackerman

If you have any names and obituaries you would like remembered, please name them in the comments below, and I will add them to the list.

Joy, Relief, Remembrances, and Celebration

Summertime and the living is easy...

This will be a fragmented post. My apologies.

...

For all of you who have been keeping RH in your thoughts, I'm happy to report that we have the results of her MRI. (Yes, I'll write about the MRI itself, once the trauma has worn down.)

She does not have a cord tether.
And she does not have brain cancer.

She'll still be getting physical therapy, starting next week I hope, but in the meantime we can relax and stop worrying about it.

Because she's still doing great.

This kid? She knows how to freak me out. She seems to WANT to freak me out once in a while. So she waited until right before that MRI, and what did she do?



That's right. She crawls. And it's adorable.

Unfortunately, now that I've started saying things like, "Oh no! RH is escaping!" as she makes a bolt for the door of whatever room we're in, DD and SI have started giving her brand new opportunities to escape.

Like opening the front door to our apartment so that she can "escape" down three flights of stairs.

Fun.

...

Did you know that May is ALS Awareness Month?
I have a blogging buddy. She lost her mom to ALS last year. It was a long, excruciating process. This post is heartbreaking, and it puts this disease into perspective for people who might not realize what ALS is, what it does. For one agonizing, horrific weekend we were terrified that M might have ALS, and that the diagnosis "brain cancer" was a comfort should give you some idea. Please take a moment to learn about ALS this month.

And maybe consider donating to an organization that helps ALS patients.


...

Did you know that May is also Jewish Heritage Awareness Month? I had no idea this was even a thing. And so here are what I think might be my most raw posts about my Jewish Heritage.
What's In A Name?
Day of Remembrance


...

Poppa and SI at the zoo

Tomorrow, the family is heading off for Iowa, to celebrate Poppa. He's receiving an honorary doctorate from his alma mater. At first he thought that this would be a sweet gesture on the part of his old college, but it's sort of snowballed. There will be 14(!!) of us there to cheer him on, he'll be delivering a speech at commencement, and he'll be joining a fairly prestigious club of honorees. There were a couple of presidents, Martin Luther King, Jr., you get the idea.

I think he's starting to freak out just a bit. I'm sure he'll be great. His hair is... fine.

And so, tomorrow the motley crew and I will pack ourselves into the minivan and drive to the middle of nowhere.

DD and SI have recently learned that only ONE of them can actually see RH at a time in the car. They fight endlessly about who gets to make faces at the baby. This is a five hour drive. With no functional DVD player in the car.

Should be a blast. :)

The Best Teacher I Ever Had

Tom Dodd, educator. (Photo from his facebook page.)

I learned of the passing of Tom Dodd pretty much first thing this morning, and it's been on my mind ever since. I've felt waves of profound sadness and loss, rushes of memories I'd almost forgotten I ever had, the occasional fit of laughter.

In order to best assess my feelings at the passing of the greatest teacher I ever had, I think it best to do what Tom Dodd would have had me do back in 1998.

He would have started by having me make a chart.

Along one side of the chart, I would list all the ways in which Tom impacted my life. How he taught me about the power of titles and the mere idea of authority, how he taught me to subvert an inherently flawed system, how he taught me to access creative processes I never knew I had.

Along the other side, I would list all the memories I have of him that stay with me every day.

Where they intersect, I would, can, and will find joy and humor in knowing that I genuinely wouldn't be who I am today without his influence.

CHS Yearbook, 2000

Tom taught a variety of classes at Community High School, where I was a student last millennium. He taught the high school newspaper, and along with that the occasional journalism or satire class. He had his own forum (CHS's version of a home room), and he taught whatever else interested, from architecture to something called "Earthworks," which is hard to describe on the best of days. It was essentially a how-to of community activism. Before that, it was it's own alternative school.

But the class I learned the most from was Creative Problem solving. I loved that class so much I took it twice, regardless of the fact that I really didn't need the credits the second time around. I considered myself unfathomably lucky to take it twice- although when Tom saw me sitting in the class the second time around, he made it clear he thought I was wasting my time. I knew I wasn't. What I didn't know what that it was also the last time he would ever teach it at Community High School.

It was a class that during some semesters was a Lit credit. Some semesters it was a History credit. Occasionally, it was a Math credit. The coursework was never changed to meet the credit, and it was never quite the same twice.

It was nothing more and nothing less than a class on how to think.

I don't mean that in the Dead Poet Society, everybody-on-the-desk, Oh Captain, my Captain, sense of the
word. Except I really actually do.

In that class, we learned how to take control of our unconscious process to use a lucid dream to come to new solutions to a problem. Students were encouraged to nap in class, so long as they shared the contents of their dreams afterwords. It was a testament to how engaging and entertaining the class was that hardly anyone took Tom up on that offer.

We learned a variety of methods of dream interpretation, including a whole class session dedicated to Freud where nobody was permitted in the room without wearing a beard. (I wore a costume beard, most girls who wanted to be allowed into the class taped paper to their chins. The gentlemen who were able grew their beards out for weeks in anticipation. I can still remember the gleams in their eyes as they stroked their beards thoughtfully, listing phallus after phallus.)

It was Tom's goal, I think, not to teach us a damn thing. We all learned.

In one class, we subverted his call for Parliamentary Procedure to remove him from control of the curriculum. We passed measures to ban certain students from directing us in productive directions, and instead pushed through a measure that on the last day of class we would bar the doors and smoke cigars out the classroom window.

I know, it was incredibly illegal. And irresponsible. But who cares? We were teenagers, learning that we had in our lives the opportunity to be in control of our destinies, to make choices and follow through on them and learn about their consequences in a real-world environment.

I'm a Cowgirl, get it? Tom Dodd approved.

Creative Problem Solving was as much a class about navigating your position in life on earth as it was about the way people navigate life on earth.

After taking CPS for my second time, I managed to take it a possibly record breaking third time as a Community Resource class, me and a few other students scrambled together a "CPS II" proposal and took it as essentially an independent study. Of course Tom agreed to act as our supervisor. For that class we went on camp outs and watched movies and generally had an awesome time. We watched "Animal House" and ate popcorn. One of our group got hypothermia playing in the waters of Lake Huron in March. Another spent an entire evening reenacting all of "The Monster at the End of This Book" from memory while under a blanket. I learned about sharing responsibilities and fostering ideas as a group in a profound way- and of course our goal was to get credit for doing absolutely nothing.

Tom as a teacher and adviser was perplexing. He supported his student's efforts to avoid learning, while simultaneously helping them to learn the benefits of learning in the first place. He was a big believer in work smarter, not harder. He liked bad jokes, offending people unnecessarily, and grilled cheese.

Tom was a vile, perverse, offensive old man. He was also an activist for civil rights and for equality, and for the preservation of history and nature. He dropped life advice out of nowhere, and it would actually stick with you. He seemed to be able to see into the kids in his classes, right into them, and find value and worth and even brilliance inside.

He didn't care if you skipped class. He didn't care if you went into his class instead of wherever you were supposed to be. He cared more about the cultivation of your mind as an instrument for wonder and knowledge and creativity than he did whether you could pass any sort of standardized test.

He once advised me to marry somebody rich. I had said I was going to be an artist or a writer or something like that, and he told me, "You're going to be poor, so marry somebody rich. You don't need any help being poor."

It was a joke, but it was also at once a warning that I might want to reconsider my decision making process, and a tacit approval of the decisions I'd already made.

I use the tools he gave me daily. It was eight years after taking his classes that I finally threw away my old notes. I still regret that decision weekly.

I don't know what I would have done without the influence of Tom Dodd.

I might have actually majored in something practical when I moved on to college, finishing my degree in a reasonable amount of time. I might have taken his advice and married somebody rich. I might have stayed in Ann Arbor and worked at the deli next door to the high school for the rest of my salad days.

Tom Dodd

I owe Tom a great deal.

I know I'm far from alone in this. His facebook page is a seemingly endless list of remembrances, of students-turned-teachers crediting him with inspiring to teach, of former students thanking him for believing in them when nobody else did, of tales of absolutely unfathomable obscenity  in a school setting, or of days shared in Tom's classroom off the stairwell. I know that there are practically generations of Tom's former students, all of whom are sharing in their sadness in this time, and still finding joy and embarrassment in the intensely meaningful time they spent with him, learning at his side. I know that, as for me, for an amazing number of people who took his classes, Tom Dodd WAS Community High School.

I am grateful to have had him in my life. To have had anyone like Tom in my life. But I can't imagine that there has ever been or will ever be another person to compare to Tom Dodd, so I must count myself among the unfathomably lucky few to have learned at his odd, stuttering side.

The world is less absurd place today than it was a few days ago. A more solemn, less wondrous place.

I will miss him more than I can say, so instead I will say what I wanted to say to him last summer, when I missed my high school reunion to have a baby...

Thank you, Tom, for everything.
Thank you for helping me shape my world view, and discover whole new possibilities of thought and reason and perspective and possibility.
Thank you for my education.

Thank you, Tom Dodd.
You were truly the best teacher I could have ever dreamed to know.

Let's Do This Every Year

All the best things for Mother's Day.

I think we may have found the perfect Mother's Day tradition.

While I spend a glorious extra forty minutes in bed, M and the girls make breakfast.

Heart shaped goat cheese omelet? Yes please. :)

Over breakfast, I am presented with some goofy token of my family's appreciation of me as a mother.

You know. Because I love Star Wars. And despite sharing her name, have never dressed up as Princess Leia.

Everyone gets a chance to play with my silly new toy.

Space-Princess DD

Space-Princess SI

The girls don't care if they don't exactly get it, it's still fun.

The littlest Leia

Of course, M gets in on the action.

Princess Daddy

Then, like a freakin' rock star, M takes the kids out to run some "Special Mother's Day Errands," and I stay home. Alone. To, say, take a hot bath. Maybe the first real, long, hot bath I've had in five years. Maybe in so long I've actually forgotten how one enters a bath so hot it's nearly scalding. Maybe.

With an icy glass of dry soda, the Stravinsky's Firebird ballet, and tea-tree and lavender bubbles? Ohhh yess....

While I soak in the tub for a glorious 80 minutes, I actually get to read a book.

FYI- if you're into thrillers, mysteries, horror, that sort of thing... this is PHENOMENAL. I could go on hours about how brilliant this book is- if you can believe it, I would call it a feminist serial-killer-who-brutalizes-and-violates-women book. Didn't know that sort of thing exists. Well, it does, And it's awesome. It's US release is next month. (Many many many extra thanks to Poppa for bringing me back an inscribed copy from London!)

After my long hot soak, I take a long cool shower. Then the girls return laden with gifts for their incredibly refreshed, incredibly happy mother.

If you live in/near Chicago and you've never had chocolate or ice cream from Margie's Candies, all I can say is... what have you been doing with your wasted life?

After a quick lunch of muffins (also courtesy of M's "Special Mother's Day Errands") the kids ALL nap, and M and I lounge around and devour way too much of the fruits of his labors. You know, while I finish my book. For real.

Seriously- it's set in Chicago, it has references to The Maxx, it's filled with wonderfully crafted characters and vivd historical references, and it is SERIOUSLY a page turner. You want to read this book and talk to me about it.

After nap time. we play and cuddle and laugh and have fun for about two hours, and then head out to a restaurant for a delicious Mother's Day dinner.

This involves DD plastering every inch of exposed skin with her marinara sauce. I mean look at her, the kid is orange.

And then? Home. And bed.

I love my goofy girls. :)

...and of course, more chocolates. :) Best. Mother's Day, Ever.