Last week a friend introduced me to VII Magazine. I was immediately drawn to a photograph of a woman lying on a birthing table, looking at the ceiling while the first of her twin sons sleeps with his left arm poking out of a bright kanga.  By the time I landed on the third picture in the photo essay I knew how the story would end. But I couldn’t stop clicking the button that moved me forward through the progress of Mama Sessay’s efforts to deliver the second baby. Rachel and our friend instructed me to stop looking at the photos and return to the present moment, which centered around dinner with friends. But I just could not look away. I felt obligated to keep moving through the photos until I reached the end.

The following day I spoke with one of my relatives, who shall remain nameless so that anonymity may provide shelter from any virtual haranguing that could result from my loose lips. We were talking about others’ suffering, and my relative said that after a lifetime of worrying, “there are some things I just don’t want to be bothered with.” She feels like she’s earned the right to some peace. I admire her honesty and her ability to select what she sees and hears for the sake of self preservation. I think many of us do the same but with less intention and certainly less truthfulness.

My relative’s M.O. reverberated through my mind, mingling with the image of Mama Sessay for days. I’m still sorting out the results of the mental stewing but I keep coming around to the notion of choosing to attend to others’ suffering, which boils down to choice. The small act of choosing not to navigate away from Mama Sessay and her infant reminded me of its larger implication that I have a choice about whether to tune into or tune out others’ suffering. I also have a choice about whether I can and will do something to relieve it. But suffering permeates so many people’s lives and there is no pause button, no looking away.

I’m neither pessimist nor glutton for punishment, but I often find myself ruminating on what recompense is required of me, as a person with a great deal of unearned privilege. I happened to be born into a white, middle class American family and my social position has allowed me to have good health, education, freedom, and financial security. Why me and not Mama Sessay? I am simultaneously haunted and fueled by this question. I don’t expect to find an answer, and that’s why I can’t tune out.

Related Posts:

• No Related Posts

Share/E-mail this article

“Ya know why communist construction companies are so slow? Because all the builders share one hammer.”

Related Posts:

• No Related Posts

Share/E-mail this article

Related Posts:

• Song of the Week: The Budos Band “Black Venom”
• Predictable Song of the Week: Arcade Fire “The Suburbs”
• Song of the Week: Mumford & Sons “White Blank Page”

Share/E-mail this article

And then…

I quickly learned that the waters of motherblogging, and motherspeaking, and mothertelepathy, if it exists, are treacherous.  In my five short months of carrying a child, I have found that topics related to pregnancy and birth and parenting spark controversies so divisive that you often have to run for cover.

Say, for example, that your goal is not to have an epidural.  If you express that thought aloud, you have just deeply insulted every woman who ever chose drugs.  Don’t even think about mentioning formula to a breast-feeder, cloth diapers to a woman who loves pampers.  If you use the term “natural childbirth” in front of a c-section-scheduler–them’s fightin’ words.

Men don’t seem to have this issue, at least in my experience.  If I say to a dad, “I’d like to do a natural birth,” however the dad’s wife gave or plans to give birth, he usually just says, “oh great.”  And then he turns to my husband with a look that says, “Dude.  Good luck with that.” Which is totally fine since there is usually a moment during our birthing class each week when I look at my husband and say, “Dude.  Good luck with this.”

A friend summarized the problem among women much better than I can: it’s as if motherhood is so personal and profound, every woman has a stake in having her choices validated by other women.  This stake…no, I’m going to go ahead and capitalize it!…this Stake makes it almost impossible to have a dialogue among women with different opinions about what might be the ideal experience.

I now realize that the Stake exists among women in areas unrelated to motherhood.  With many women, it starts early and manifests itself viciously.  Dress like me or you’re beneath me.  Choose my college or you must not be a true friend.  Follow the path I’ve taken at work or incur my wrath.  Idolize me, or I can only assume that you secretly spend your time plotting my destruction.  I’m not going to get into why I think the Stake exists and why it’s a dominating force in some women and conspicuously absent in others.  The internet might not be big enough to have that discussion.  I’m just acknowledging that the Stake is alive and well and shutting down productive conversations everywhere.

Even though it exists in other contexts, I think that something about the experience of motherhood magnifies the Stake.  The motherhood Stake imposes all kinds of guilt.  If you question anything that anyone ever has characterized as a “safety” issue, you are shamed.  Do a google search like “how serious is listeria?” and the results page opens up like a giant mouth screaming “I hope that turkey sandwich was worth killing your child for!”  More than one person has commented on my decision to continue coloring my hair during pregnancy because that is still so taboo (and I think someone just judged me! I felt it!  But, hey, I’m a pioneer for highlights).  Suggest that you are planning to eat during labor and you are quickly reminded that’s “against the rules.”  In my experience, which is admittedly limited and short, I have found that pregnancy is innately accompanied by a certain amount of anxiety, and then you throw on the expectations of the women around you–all of whom suddenly seem to have MDs and megaphones–and you need to breathe in a bag if you’re even near a caffeinated beverage.

I have found the force of the Stake to be absolutely paralyzing.  I’ve tried a million times to write something real about my pregnancy or my feelings about birth or my fears about actually parenting a child.  I’ve ended up scrapping the drafts, content to stick with less divisive subjects, like politics and religion.  Somewhere along the way, I figured it best to give up on putting myself out there in the universe as a voice for or against, well, anything related to having a child.

But then, wait one motherblogging minute.

It just seems wrong to succumb to and be silenced by the Stake.  I have encountered very few issues in my life that could be solved by less communication.  So, I guess my suggestion is that we all just acknowledge and accept the Stake.  Isn’t it better for a c-section-scheduler and a natural-birther to be able to sit together over coffee and say, “this is my choice and that was yours, and I hope it works out great for both of us”?  Imagine a world where a woman can comfortably say, “yeah, I hated being a pregnant” to another woman who felt it was the most magical time of her life.

The truth seems to be that once I have this child, I will know more about having had this child.  And on our child’s first birthday, I will know more about how our child’s first year went.  But it’s so different for every woman and every child in every minute, and we’re all just doing the best we can.  That’s what I want to write and read about on the internet.  I don’t want to lecture or be lectured about the “right” way to do anything.  I just want to share my attempts and to read about yours.  And I want, in my motherblogging, to be able to acknowledge that because it’s all so different and crazy and imperfect, I don’t have a Stake in anyone else’s decisions.

Related Posts:

• No Related Posts

Share/E-mail this article

Someday, far into the future — if we make it that far, despite the existence of guys like Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and Will Ferrell — people will look at photos and video from our generation and presume the following:

That 20th/21st Century Americans worship women with large, pointy, nippleless breasts and no genitalia. Historians often assign “maternity worship” qualities to past civilizations, based on finding dolls with large bellies. But who’s to say they weren’t making fun of fat people — just as they should have been (and as we rightly do)? In the future, an archaeologist finding Barbies and Kens and G.I.s Joe will think we were a strange, strange people… and will labor to find an explanation as to how these mutilated people continued to exist.

That homosexuality peaked in popularity in the 2010s, thanks to the hard work of the executives at HGTV. Aside from the “gay-only” cable networks — and, really, does anyone actually get these channels? — no one has labored harder for the mainstreaming of same-sex relations than the fine folks at HGTV. Despite being less than 13 percent (and that’s a liberal estimate) of the population, gay couples seem to find themselves in at least half of the episodes of “House Hunters,” “Rate My Space,” “Color Splash” and “Flip That House”. I know this because my wife loves these shows. Not because she’s gay, but because her husband just isn’t that smart, and it’s the only way she’ll ever know what a Renovated Ruin with Olive Grove in the Hills of Italy looks like. (For whatever reason, we’ve noticed that no mattress or detergent or cereal commercials feature same-sex couples, even on HGTV. When two men — who love each other very much, by the way — make it into an erectile dysfunction ad, then the gay community will know that it has arrived.)

That dogs ruled the Western Hemisphere. These are things I have witnessed, with my own two eyes: An elderly woman, who can barely walk, pushing her chihuahua around in a stroller. (Or maybe it was a walker, and maybe she was blind… anyway.) A cemetery filed with headstones memorializing creatures with names like Spud and Spot and Ticklypoo. A grown man, putting on a plastic glove and picking up his pet labrador’s shit, then depositing said shit into a ZipLoc bag, for what future purpose I have no idea.

We have lost our minds.

What else could our postcessors possibly think? Myself, having never touched the fecal matter of anything that didn’t start out as a sperm inside my own grand loins, I can only begin to imagine the level of laughter that will be had when our memories, etched in Kodak film and USB hard drives, are seen by The People of the Future. “Look at these animals!” they’ll intone, and Future NPR will do all manner of stories about how The People of the Future evolved from a much lowlier version of human, one that was lower in brainpower (or willpower?) than even a mangy animal! These people held onto a rope, which was attached to the Superior Mammal’s neck, and this Superior Mammal then walked Lowly Subhuman around for exercise. Of course, if Superior Mammal needed a drink or a whiz or whatever else… well, Lowly Subhuman wasn’t that dumb… it was allowed to “help!” What fun!

And, every once in a while, the occasionally generous Superior Mammal would run over to the fridge, clasp the handle in its well-kept teeth, open the door and get a cold beer for its sad subhuman counterpart… “Stupid Pet Tricks” indeed.

Related Posts:

• No Related Posts

Share/E-mail this article

I love to walk around the lake near my house, especially in the last hours of the day when the sun sinks behind the trees. The path was filled with the usual cast of characters: men on roller blades, cyclists annoyed by pedestrians in the “wheels only” lane, families with small children, college students, middle aged power walkers, and the elderly man wearing an A-frame sign that says SPANISH LESSONS. I settled on the concrete perimeter near the boat house and watched some children exploring the water and the ducks.

To my left, there was a group of eight black children, ranging in age from about six to sixteen. To my right, there were three white children, aged seven or eight through fifteen. The white children’s mom, dad, and grandmother joined them in watching the ducks at play. The smallest of the black children wandered over and began pelting the ducks with rocks, saying “Ha! I got your beak!” The following exchange ensued:

Grandma & Father (loud enough for young boy to hear, but not directly addressing him): Now that’s just mean.

Young boy ignores them and continues to take aim at the ducks.

Grandma (shouting): Stop throwing rocks at the ducks. That’s not nice!

Young boy: Huh?

Grandma repeats herself.

Young boy: Huh?

Grandma: You don’t understand English?

Young boy throws more rocks.

His brother says: Hey! Why are you talking to my brother?

Boy throws more rocks at the ducks. Ducks panic (to the extent possible).

Dad (attempting a diversion?): Hey. can you swim all the way out there (gesturing at the dock in the lake)?

Young boy: Why you talking to me? You don’t have any business with me! What are you talking about, boy?

Mom: He’s just asking if you can swim out there.

Young boy: You don’t need to be in my business, boy!

Grandma: Oh, you don’t know how to swim.

Young boy: Get away from me, motherfucker. Stupid faggot.

Dad astonished, open-mouthed, staring.

Young boy: What are you looking at?

Dad (loudly and emphatically): Nothing. I am looking at nothing.

Young boy: You better get away from me, faggot, before I go get my auntie.

White family walks away. Boys continue to pelt ducks as their two older siblings look on from the dock.

I felt so awkward as a silent observer of this exchange that clearly humiliated and angered both parties. I wondered what could be fueling so much anger in such a small child. Did the anger really belong to him, or was it a script he was parroting? Why did the dad and grandma feel entitled to correct the child’s behavior? Is this the kind of division that people like Glenn Beck aim to inspire? Did the white family walk away feeling more inclined to “reclaim” America?

Am I making this about race when it’s really about ducks?

Related Posts:

• No Related Posts

Share/E-mail this article

I have been making this dish consistently for the last 2 years or so, and yet I still can’t seem to get the perfect recipe down. Don’t get me wrong, I can make a mean Gumbo, but my problem lies in the creativity that makes mine unique.  I have tried different meats and seafood. I have also tried different vegetables. This recipe is so far my most interesting interpretation of classic gumbo. I would love to have your thoughts and ideas on this matter.

Gumbo with Andouille and Tomatillos

Ingredients

1/2 c vegetable oil

1/2 c flour

6 c good quality chicken stock

1 1/2 c diced onions separated

1/2 c green bell pepper

1/2 c celery

1 c pablano pepper separated

1 Serrano chile ribs remove and minced

3 andouille sausage links sliced

1/2 pound boneless skinless chicken thighs sliced

4 tomatillos chopped

2 cloves garlic pressed

1 T old bay

1 T filet powder

salt and pepper to taste

Process

-Start by putting 1/2 c pablano peppers, 1/2 c onions, and 2 tomatillos into a food processor and blend till smooth. Add a little bit of water to make it come together.

Meanwhile brown your sausage in a dutch oven. Once browned, remove and add the chicken and also brown. Remove chicken from dutch oven. Add the oil and flour to the dutch oven on a low heat. To make a roux worthy of gumbo it will take patience. Start whisking the oil/flour mixture until in turns a brick red. This will take about 30 mins. Do not try to speed up the process by turning the heat up, as you will burn the flour and have to start over. When the roux in ready add your onions, peppers, and celery. Continue whisking till the vegetables turn translucent. Start adding the chicken stock slowly while whisking constantly. Add the rest of the stock and then also add your meat back into the pot.

When the gumbo has come to a simmer spoon the tomatillos mixture in. This would be a good time to add the old bay and Filet powder. As the gumbo comes back to a simmer, taste to see that the seasoning is correct. Adjust with salt and pepper as needed along with more old bay and filet powder if desired.

Serve with white rice and a bit of hot sauce and your in business!

Related Posts:

• Time to Set the Table
• Whole Wheat Oatmeal Pancakes
• Mustard Crusted Salmon

Share/E-mail this article

Free Release Friday
Best New Music.
Power und Beauty: The Gnome E.P.
2010, Peppermill Records

This album is available as a free download here.

The netlabel world is typically a world of ambient electronica experimentalism.  This is not a bad thing, but finding a brilliant little exhuberant acoustic-based E.P. like Power und Beauty’s The Gnome E.P., was a tremendous surprise for me.

Power und Beauty is a four-piece female band from Spokane, Washington.  The band makes four-part choral folk songs that are partly beautiful and partly unsettling.  One can easily recall Pavement and Fleet Foxes while listening to Power und Beauty’s four tracks on this E.P., yet the band has the ability to never feel derivative.

The band makes a special effort to create arrangements that are familiar and foreign, which plays well to the unsettling vibe on the record.  This reveals itself immediately in “Beggars and Felons,” the E.P.’s opening track.  Apart from the subject matter, the band introduces their music with an accordion waltz, hardly an instantly familiar song form for contemporary indie rock. 

Pair Power und Beauty’s grade school choir treatments with their unfamiliar song forms and you have the equation of a band that is likeably off-kilter.  You see this in the E.P.’s next two tracks, “Lavender” and “Peaches.”  Rather abruptly, the E.P. closes with the acoustic “The Author of Spring.” The choral arrangements are brilliant here, on par with anything that Fleet Foxes is doing, and it leaves the E.P. with a haunted feeling.

Power und Beauty are poised to make a remarkable statement to the folk community.  There is a tremendous gap between acoustic innovation and folk song forms that Fleet Foxes have only scratched in their self-titled debut for Sub Pop.  Pairing these lo-fi treatments to non-standard folk forms is truly a promising step in the right direction, even if it is a bit unsettling.

Cover art and Mp3s via Peppermill Records.

Related Posts:

• Hanalei: One Big Night
• The Strait of Anain: This Wandering Winter
• Socket Science: Ephedra

Share/E-mail this article

BIG TREES!!!

“Trees, trees, trees,”
Thought the lumberjack.
There were trees all around.
More than he could shake a saw at.

Then, it happened.

He got married.
No more cutting big trees like a big, lumberjack man.
Nope, now he’s got to hold his wife’s purse, again,
while she tries on yet another smock.

“Well, if you like trees so much,” the lumberjack’s wife asked,
“why don’t you marry them?”

So, he did. 

He got the papers (which were made from trees)
and he got her John Hancock 
and he was divorced and then he married the trees.

A week later, he was hauled off to jail for sawing
his wife in half.

BIG TREES!!!

Related Posts:

• A Poem About Youth
• Like Glue, That’s Me and You
• Celebrity Roundup (Vol. 1)

Share/E-mail this article

Scott Pilgrim vs. the World

Directed by Edgar Wright

Starring Michael Cera, Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Jason Schwartzman

Rated PG-13 for stylized violence, sexual content, language and drug references

It seems as though Hollywood has been especially pandering and safe the last few years, cranking out sequels and remakes with disappointing and insulting results more often than not.  So it’s refreshing to see director Edgar Wright (Shaun of the Dead, Hot Fuzz) creating original work within that framework, breathing life into his adaptation of the Scott Pilgrim comic series.  Michael Cera plays the eponymous Scott Pilgrim, a 22-year-old bass player who learns he must defeat the seven evil exes in order to win the heart of his new girlfriend.

For a plot that’s so easy to sum up, the film is wonderfully rich in style and grin-inducing coolness.  Progressing like a Japanese fighting video game and reading like a comic book, Scott Pilgrim is the rare action-comedy that actually delivers both action and comedy in spades.  I could get overly literary and talk about how it’s an interesting exploration of the past coming back to effect our futures, but all you need to know about this movie is that is one hell of a fun ride.  If I wasn’t laughing out loud at the breakneck comedic timing, I was giggling with delight simply absorbing the experience.

It’s not a perfect movie, and it lags for a little while around ex number 3, but that fleeting moment is followed by some of the funniest gags in the movie.  Michael Cera plays the same character he always seems to play, but it works here because everyone is an archetype.  The tough guy and the cocky musician and the indie rock chick are used as shorthand so that the story can move and so the jokes and punches can fly without any need for over-thinking.  The movie throws itself into its premise, neither apologizing for the styling nor selling it out as a joke.  Edgar Wright’s sure hand is as impressive as ever and casts a long shadow on anyone trying to create comedy in Hollywood.

Related Posts:

• No Related Posts

Share/E-mail this article