Moving.

I'm too negative here.

It is because I am too cynical.

Click here if you want to see me embark on my Oprah journey.

The Leaning Tower of Awesome

My son came up to me with a piece of paper clutched behind his back.

He asked me if I knew what was in Italy.

I played dumb.

So he told me about a building that is falling over. He whipped out his illustration of the Leaning Tower of Pisa. He didn't know its name. But now he does. My husband just took him on an internet adventure to teach him about the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

I asked him why he thought caused the lean. He answered, "Probably an earthquake!" Not accurate, but not outlandish.

This stuff is the best part of parenting.

Catching Up or Leading the Way

I'm reading a book called Catching Up or Leading the Way: American Education in the Age of Globalization.

My son wanting me to play video games with him wondered what book was getting in the way of his video game bonding time with his Mama. Before I start to look like a selfish mama, I need to point out that I had just finished reading yet another chapter of Percy Jackson and The Lightning Thief aloud to him.

I showed him the title and he said: "How you it be about catching up AND leading the way. That's impossible."

I pointed to the word "or" which seemed to clarify things. I then told him that the book was about American Education during our time of globalization. I do speak like this to my kid. Been doing it his whole life. Hasn't hurt him yet.

I then asked him what he thought about American education. I asked him if America is catching up or leading the way.

To which he quickly replied matter-of-factly, "Catching up!"

Being me, I asked for a bit of elaboration.

Being him, he delivered. He explained in a feverish tsunami of words that his teacher said that American is only 200 years old and that there are countries that are 500 years old or 1000 years old and that America is still catching up. There were more iterations and words like weirdish thrown in for good measure.

I didn't correct him and teach him that American innovation is what makes us great and that other countries attempt to catch up with us. I didn't scare him by telling him that the centralization and standardization of education is what will ultimately stifle that innovation. I didn't tell him the history of graphite and its role in the history of 20th century American education. I won't ruin his childhood with facts and realities.

But I'd like to think that I am preparing him for the complexity of reality by talking with him about it in the first place, by making him feel like his opinion matters no matter how adorable it is.

PROJECTS!

Okay.

The Fellowship of the Word Processor that I've been involved with over the past couple of weeks has SHOWN me the way. I have to write. Daily.

So...I am going to extend that idea to photography. I need to take photos every day. Not just snapshots, but composed photographs.

Plan: Project 365--a photo a day for a year. I'm also going to write about each photo a bit.

Plan: Self Portrait 52--a self-portrait a week for a year. And I'm going to write about it.

Isn't this exciting?

I just have to find a way to make Blogger only allow certain people to view photos. I'm trying to go incognita here.

Mad Women

I've recently discovered the AMC series Mad Men. The series is a lot like visiting another country. Everything is strangely familiar yet maddeningly foreign in a way which makes you homesick for even some of the more hellish aspects of home.

When I first started watching the series, I was shocked by the abundance of cigarette smoke and abundance of misogyny--which is arguably more cancerous on a figurative level.

My grandmother was valedictorian of her high school class. I didn't know this until I graduated as one of the valedictorians of my own high school class. Like most women of her generation, she rarely speaks of herself having been raised to put others before her. After her graduation, my grandmother went to secretary school and became a secretary working in Los Angeles in the 1950s. Two generations later, my reward for my diligence and intelligence is a near free ride to UCLA, one of the top public universities in the country. I can't help but wonder what my grandmother thought about her eldest granddaughter's post high school opportunities. She would probably shake her head in a bemused wonder at my generation predilection for public introspection in blogs like these. Two generations and two worlds apart.

I can't help but admire my grandmother for being a woman during this time period. It doesn't matter which character she was most like. She could have been a Peggy, or a Joan, or a Betty.

Again, it doesn't matter. She had to be quiet.

The only thing that I could possibly envy in the life of Mrs. Don Draper from Mad Men would be elements of her wardrobe. And those dresses would never be worth her the life she leads.

Named Elizabeth, often called Betty, nicknamed Birdie by her husband, Mrs. Don Draper is everyone and no one at the same time. She quietly trembles, gossips softly with an air of malicious contempt about a new addition to the neighborhood with her gal pals, calmly attends therapy sessions with an analyst who provides reports to her husband behind her back, and serves fish sticks with a smile all while smoking.

She seems incredibly alone and isolated. Fashionable--but alone.

In one episode she is given an opportunity to re-enter a career in modeling, but she does not realize that she is only being used to get her husband to move to competing ad agency. So when he doesn't make the move, she is told that they are going to go for someone with more of an Audrey Hepburn look. Being more of a Grace Kelly, Betty is clearly bothered by the rejection, but like all good women of the time seems to sweep that sadness/frustration under a rug.

Her chance out of suburbia, albeit to be a model and the epitome of objectification, is extinguished.

The beginning of the episode featured the neighbor's homing pigeons. I didn't need my degree in American Literature and Culture to tell you that those birds would return!

You can destroy a bird's symbolic value with a cage or with a gun. The writers of the show apparently like guns more (I'm not just talking about Chekhov's Gun*), especially guns in the hands of Grace Kellyesque suburban housewives wearing their whisper thin nighties in the middle of the afternoon in the middle of their manicured back yards. She is smoking a cigarette and aiming at the neighbor's homing pigeons. Plot wise, she seems to be getting revenge on her neighbor for threatening to murder her children's dog for going after the precious pigeons. Symbolically, she is trying to bring down the Birdies. If she can't be free, why should they?

I thought of that scene today as I drove home with a screaming five year old in the backseat of my care after a particularly frustrating day at work.

You might think that I might write about the illusory nature of freedom here. But it would be a lie (and--frankly--a bit of a cliche) to characterize freedom as an illusion. We have the freedom to change our lives; we just don't have an easy time doing it. Instead of dealing with the struggle, we opine and whine about how freedom is a joke or an illusion or only for the rich. Betty could change her life, but it would be very, very, very difficult.

What I actually thought about was how fortunate I am to be a woman and a mother today. I have a career and a family. Both carry frustrations. But today is it socially acceptable to vent. Today I can sit down and compose multiple paragraphs about a fictional television show set in the past as a way for me to work out my frustrations about my current reality. My grandmother had no such outlets. Neither did Betty Draper, and she went a wee bit crazy in her backyard.

To conclude: Today was a bad day, but I didn't end up clad in a nightie smoking a cigarette and shooting at pigeons. My bad day was not really that bad of a day.

It is all about perspective. I'm not trapped.

*Do I get points for having a degree in American Literature yet still knowing about Chekhov's gun?

No More "Just in Case" Thinking

For too long, I've operated under the "just in case" mentality. I should buy these shoes just in case I have an opportunity to wear them (and ::shocker:: I rarely do have the opportunity). I should buy these because they are on sale now just in case they aren't on sale when I need them (and ::shocker:: I rarely need them). I should keep these books just in case I want to read them again (and ::shocker:: I don't).

For awhile now I have been moving away from this mentality. I know that it is connected with the running in a way.

Running has changed me significantly.

I now have patience. Transformations take time. I can't expect instant gratification or immediate rewards. This patience has allowed to me to see my own power. So many people quickly say that they can't do something because they can't see immediate results. I know that I can do a great many things if I have the time. I once said that I'd never weigh what I weighed when I got married again. I thought it was a lost cause. Now I weigh was I weighed when I was sixteen.

When my current half-marathon training initially called for a tempo run or some speedwork, I was convinced that I couldn't maintain those paces for those distances. But I did. I can do more than I realize.

Every pound that is lost, every mile that is logged, every run that is a little bit faster is just proof that I am powerful and competent in a world where chaos and incompetence appearing to reign supreme gives most of us the feeling of being powerless.

I have self-confidence in myself. I don't need to fear a world of scarcity. I don't need stuff "just in case" something horrible happens. I can make life work. I'm resourceful and intelligent.

Letting go of the "just in case" mentality is not just about the tangible stuff. I don't need to stockpile social capital by being false and fake "just in case" I'll need the person later on. I do no one any favors by kowtowing to ineptitude or enabling others to develop delusions of grandeur just to build social capital.

And I just realized (literally just realized) that I can teach my son to have faith in himself he won't have to live life "just in case." I must teach by modeling it.

(By the way--I blame O Magazine and one of its contributors for giving me the language to discuss what I've noticed about me.)

A Proper British Influence

My son is struggling to behave in Kindergarten. Kindergarten is a little bit fascist these days, so I am sympathetic to his outbursts, but I have to be the good parent and encourage proper suburban behavior.

My son's teacher does not have children of her own. This is a strike against her credibility in my eyes.

In our email discussions, she brings up the following:

I know he also likes to watch Sponge Bob. An alternative to Sponge Bob would be Kipper. I don’t know if you have heard of it but Kindergartners love the series. Kipper is a very polite English dog that teaches children about friendship skills, good behavior, among many other things. Perhaps you could research more about it and try it with him. It could become one of his incentives for good behavior.

I find this freaking hilarious. We don't believe in "very polite English dogs" here. We value things like Monty Python and Eddie Izzard. We value dry senses of humor and self-deprecation. Paddington Bear is not our style. Neither is Kipper--the poor man's Paddington bear.

But in all seriousness, she is trying to be nice about the whole thing. I can't blame her. If I taught 20 kids that age, I'd want them zoned out in a blissful ignorant contemplation of all things Kipper as well. It would probably make them easier to control.

Geeky, But Well-Rounded

A friend told me today that I the most well-read person he knew. He then corrected himself and decided that I was very well-read and the most well-rounded person he knew. I found this initially laughable.

A hour later I visited a friend's blog and wrote the following comment to her post about being a housewife. After I wrote this comment, I realized that perhaps my friend is right.

Feminist theory is complex.

Part of feminist theory is that women are seen as defective men. For example, women are "too emotional." We never hear that men aren't emotional enough. Women are judged by a male norm. That's what millenia of patriarchy can do.

I think that there NEEDS to be multiple measures and examples of greatness and success. I think that women who are stay at home mothers are amazing. They are a lot tougher than me. I honor their work. However, I want women to have the opportunity to CHOOSE their path. I don't have a daughter. But if I did, I would want her to feel like she had choices and power. I would want her to feel like a subject--not an object. I would want her to do honorable work--whatever form it may take.

I have a son. I want these things for him. If my son were to want to be a stay at home dad, I would feel like I did an excellent job at his mother as long as that is what he chooses to do.

We want our children to have the confidence and competence to fulfill their potential. Rigid gender roles can erode a person's confidence in my honest opinion. Notice I said can. I do not think that rigid gender roles always erode a person's confidence. It all depends on the individual.

The more that I read about hormones and neurotransmitters and their roles in helping to develop personality/temperament, I am further convinced that rigid gender roles can be damaging. DIfferent brains have different balances resulting in different personality characteristics. It really isn't all about the XX or XY chromosomes and/or social upbringing alone. (I'm a geek. Clearly.)

Housewives are amazing. So are social workers. So are waiters. So are teachers. So are engineers. So are writers. I think it all goes back to something that Steve wrote. People should bless their families and the entire human race. Some women need to enter traditionally male field to help bless the human race. And vice versa.

Being Christ-like can take many forms.

Namaste.

This comment alone reference parts of feminist theory, brain chemistry, Christianity, and Buddhism. Goodness.

I am a geek. Clearly.

What You Can Learn from a B Movie Actor

I spend time thinking about hypotheticals THAT WILL NEVER HAPPEN TO ME.

Case in point--daydreaming about having dinner with certain personalities. Some people want to win the lottery. I want to eat a salad while chatting with interesting people. My husband, in a burst of romance, once tried to track down this writer that I adore in the hopes that he would write one paragraph about me. I really want to dine with that guy.

I've always sort of known about Bruce Campbell. I knew about Evil Dead 2 before most people thanks to my speed reading ability and a subscription to Entertainment Weekly from when I was in high school.

But I never really knew much about Bruce Campbell. Not enough to include him on my list of Hypothetical Dinner Dates. I mean he's a just character actor in odd B movies.

And then I heard him on the latest Wait! Wait! Don't Tell Me! I am smitten!

This is the sort of person I NEED to be dining with. The man argues that most A movies are really just B movies. According to Campbell, dressing up like a bat in a city called Gotham chasing a guy named The Joke is clearly standard B movie fare. After Campbell deftly segued to Spiderman by referencing the 1950s B movie quality of radioactive spider bites, the host of the program mentioned that Campbell had cameo roles in all three Spiderman films.

Campbell challenged him.

They weren't cameo roles.

They were pivotal roles, he insisted.

He then proves the importance of each character he played. My favorite was his role in Spiderman 2. He played the snooty usher at the theater. Campbell argued that that role was pivotal because it was he who prevented Peter Parker from seeing Mary Jane at the play. He claimed that he played the only character to have ever defeated Spiderman.

Now do you understand why I was smitten?

I think that I need to have dinner with this gentleman. I too often focus on that fact that I am only the snooty usher. I never realize when I defeat Spiderman.

And that is surely worth the price of dinner!

Fighting the Lunch Lady Man

My son received a Notice of Misbehavior this past Friday. The three part NCR form read that "D--- was bothering other students at lunch."

Before I morphed into Mama Bear, I questioned my son to try to figure out what he had done. Lunch lady or teacher on duty (who knows!) used the verb "bothering" which is so ridiculously imprecise! What am I supposed to do with a five year old who isn't sure how he was bothering anyone.

I wrote on the slip of misbehavior that I needed to know exactly what my son did in order to deal with it at home.

Here is the email exchange from today. I've cut and pasted the emails into chronological order. And eliminated names because the internet is like the wild, wild west.

________________

On Jan 26, 2009, at 12:02 PM, Kindergarten Teacher wrote:

Good morning,

I asked Mrs. Bothering what occurred during lunch. She said that “D-- was talking with another student from my class while leaning across the table. She asked both students to stop the behavior but the behavior continued”. Both students received a Pink Slip for that incident.

I know that on this day we had rainy day schedule, which means that the students stay in the cafeteria during their lunch period watching a movie. I know how difficult it is for Kinders to stay quiet during a long period of time, but unfortunately, we have a no talking zone in the cafeteria and the students are only allowed to whisper.

I hope this information helps.

___________________

From: tara incognita
Sent: Monday, January 26, 2009 3:14 PM
To: Kindergarten Teacher
Subject: Re: Notification of Misbehavior

Thank you for letting me know. I really appreciate the details. I'm sure that you can understand my frustration with such a vague word like bother. Bothering can take on so many forms. It is hard as a parent to discuss it with my child when he is struggling to know how he bothered someone. From the details, it seemed as if no "bothering" was occurring. Just two restless kids chatting when they were told not to. This is completely different from bothering in my opinion. No wonder he was confused about how he received the slip.

I agree that it is unfortunate that there is a no talking zone in the cafeteria. No only is it antithetical to the goal of school, but it instills poor eating habits that may contribute to rising rates of obesity in this country. Perhaps those in charge should pick up some research on eating habits and how eliminating the social conversation while eating helps contribute to the rising tide of obesity.

Please don't get me wrong. I want my son to follow the rules, but I also want the schools to act in the better interest of the developing child. My son is very loquacious, social, and kinesthetic. These are not bad attributes to have under other circumstances, but somehow in school--normal boy behavior is seen as defective.

I'm just venting. Please don't misunderstand me. I want my son to behave.

Thanks again!

I do appreciate how you seem to be aware of the developmental needs of the child even if the school policies do not.

tara incognita
_______________

Later that same hour, Kindergarten Teacher responds:

I totally agree with you. Believe me, I did try to let the school know that a Kindergarten student attention span is about 5 minutes and then it is time to stretch, talk, do what ever it takes to get them back to focus. No one cared to listen to me! I have had a staff member’s son who is in my class been given several red slips. It is unfortunate that this is happening.

I am glad that you understand your son’s personally, and that you are willing to help him at home.

Thanks,
Kindergarten Teacher


_________________

Mama Bear wants to fight the man so that kids can TALK AT LUNCH!

Obligatory End of the Year Wrap Up in List Form

In which I sort the events of the year into two big categories and don't elaborate.


Cheers

1. Obama's election
   
2. Solo Road Trips
   
3. Running
   
4. Facebook and finding/visiting old friends
   
5. Super Target in TOWN!
   
6. Hardwood flooring!
   
7. Wii
   
8. Lensbaby Photography
   
9. Radiolab
   
10. Nostalgia
    
11. LOST
    
12. Turning 30
    
13. Finishing first 1/2 marathon strong
    
14. Satellite radio
    
15. Chuck Klosterman's non-fiction
    
16. Clarity and confidence
    
17. My son's phonemic awareness
    
18. The Olympics
    
19. Mixtape CD's received as gifts! I love mixtapes.
    

Jeers

1. Grey hair
   
2. High gas prices
   
3. Recession and friends losing jobs
   
4. Running Injuries
   
5. Money dropped on running shoes
6. Heavily processed "food"
   
7. Chuck Klosterman's fiction
   
8. No girls weekend this year!
   
9. No travel to other countries this year!
   
10. Having to deal with people who hate on the running and healthy eating
    
11. General adult stresses
    
12. Can't recall one AMAZING movie from the year other than old Hitchcock that I rented
    

On the Intensity of my Interests

About a week ago I was listening to "Into the Mystic" by Van Morrison. I'm fully in the flow of the guitar and Morrison's voice. I'm imagining that a combination of time travel and/or reincarnation means that I'm the gypsy soul that he wanted to rock when this song was released. (Goal achieved, Mr. Morrison. I am rocked.)

I turn to my husband and ask if he likes Van Morrison. And I receive the same answer I get whenever I ask him about a band or musician. It is as if he views the whole of music (excepting tiki or lounge music) as tolerable or adequate, but nothing life sustaining or life enhancing.

Times like these make me forget all the many benefits of marriage and the many positive characteristics of my husband. All I can think of is how did I manage to marry a man who sees no difference in quality between Van Morrison, Dexy's Midnight Runners, and The Doobie Brothers. My husband can date Hawaiian shirts within 5 years based on esoteric trivia that he has learned. But he has no real opinion on Van Morrison.

Van Morrison isn't the only artist to not impress my husband. I have yet to discover what he really likes musically beyond The Beach Boys.

One cannot be satisfied just by The Beach Boys!

But in the end--this isn't about my husband. My husband is amazing in so many ways even if his taste is music is limited and weak.

This is about me seeking me in others. This is about me frequently feeling lonely by the intensity of my interests that I so rarely see duplicated in others.

Where are those who are most like me? I can't be that odd. Can I?

On Allusions

In our youngest and most vulnerable years as children, our first allusions are charming and generally cartoon-based.  Our parents generally understand our allusions as they control what we can see of the world.  Therefore, a child's allusions are reflective of the parent rather than the child.

Years later, as teenagers, our allusions are verbal evidence of the work we put into shaping and manufacturing our personas.  Our allusions tend to be more esoteric as we try to use them to evade our parents' understanding of the persona we labor so painstakingly to create.

Sometime in our twenties, we realize that communicating who we are shouldn't have an adjective like "painstaking" nailed to it.  We discard the persona and discover the person.  Our allusions become reflective of the person.   And we use them as tests--Who will understand this reference?  Is this person someone who I can't be real around?  Will this person be thrilled by that which thrills me? 

I've just hit my thirties.  I have no idea what happens next, but I fear and I suspect that my allusions will start to wrinkle and grey and date me.  

On Fashioning Analogies

I consider the art of analogy the number one indicator of intelligence.

In Fargo Rock City: A Heavy Metal Odyssey in Rural Nörth Daköta, Chuck Klosterman tries to capture in analogy the differences between Eric Clapton and Eddie Van Halen and succeeds: 

"Listening to Clapton is like getting a sensual massage from a woman you've loved for the past ten years; listening to Van Halen is like having the best sex of your life with three foxy nursing students you met at the Tastee Freez."* 

While I trust that I won't need to employ such modifiers such as "foxy" into rhetoric battle, I hope that I will be able to fashion analogies like his. 

*This analogy would, of course, explain why I would choose Blind Faith, Cream, or Derek and the Dominoes over Van Halen.  It also explains why my husband prefers the Van Halen of the David Lee Roth years. 

On the Importance of Moms Discussing Politics

Discussing politics socially should not be taboo.

When I found out I was pregnant back in 2002, I embraced my geekiness and immediately hit the internet for information and advice. I found myself a part of a bulletin board of mothers who were due in July. Nearly six years later, we still have this incredible bond. The women on our bulletin board have supported each other through divorces, miscarriages, pregnancies, career changes, and the other varied stresses of life. Two years ago today, we lost one of our members to cancer. In short this group of women who initially bonded because of the shared timing of their first child have discussed and dealt with it all.

Politics has remained, still after all these years, a subject that many believe should not be discussed. The historic nomination of Barack Obama and the historic choice of Sarah Palin on the Republican ticket engendered commentary in our little corner of the internet. There was a bit of tension. Some suggested not discussing politics.

This is ridiculous. Moms must be involved in political discussion! We need true political discourse in this country. How can a country conceived in liberty somehow create a citizenry that believes that politics is an inappropriate topic for discussion? I think of Patrick Henry, Thomas Paine, Alexander Hamilton, James Madison, and other significant voices of the Revolution and the New Republic. What would they think of a politics being pushed aside in conversation? Great American orators and writers dominate the pages of history. Let’s not allow 24-hour news networks with its sound bites destroy the art of political conversation. Instead let’s allow the internet with its democratizing powers include more people in the conversation. Let’s hold ourselves up to high standards of logic and reasoning. And let’s truly hear one another.

We are the mothers. As mothers we are our children’s first social studies instructor. We must model thoughtful political discourse in front of our children. We must have dinner parties with Republicans, Democrats, and Independents. We must encourage our children to form their own opinions after careful consideration of and conversation on the issues. For the sake of the Founding Fathers, we mothers must remember that part of our job is not only raising children but also raising civically minded citizens.

I can’t help but think of 1963, Martin Luther King, Jr., and those clergymen who acknowledged the social injustices of that time yet disagreed with King’s tactics and demonstrations in the name of Civil Rights. Those eight clergymen believed that King and his followers should use the courts instead of taking the battle to the streets. Their letter motivated King to write a masterpiece both of the English language and of the human spirit. His “Letter from Birmingham Jail” outlined the justification for his actions. The clergymen wanted him to wait. King explains that he couldn’t and shouldn’t wait when he and others have witnessed and experiences a lengthy list full of atrocities ranging from lynching to suffering in poverty to having to explain to a child why she can’t go to the amusement park.

Perhaps those eight clergymen felt that waiting would have been quieter. Quiet doesn’t get things done. Quiet doesn’t cause change. Quiet doesn’t inspire.

Be loud.

Engage in conversations about politics, so that when our children ask about a perceived injustice in our world, we can show them the way to change.

On What is Obvious Tonight

Watching the Olympics is quite time consuming, and if I were completely honest, a wee bit emotional.

The last time that I watched the Olympics like this was 1996. With high school completed and college looming on the horizon, I had naught else to do but watch the Olympics. On August 1, 1996, I wrote the following in my journal:

"I should have been a rhythmic gymnast. That much is obvious tonight."

Clearly, I was reflective and pensive in the way that only an bored eighteen year old can be in the summer before college.

Tonight I sit here with my son pressed up against me in bed watching the Olympics. He is fighting sleep and would rather watch SpongeBob SquarePants. Michael Phelps is about to swim the 100M Butterfly--everyone expects him to earn his seventh gold of these games--tying Spitz's record from 1972. He just won by 1/100th of a second.

Twelve years ago watching the Olympics revealed the "obvious" notion that I should have been a rhythmic gymnast. I clearly didn't understand what the word obvious meant. I was also a girl completely self-absorbed with myself. I saw rhythmic gymnastics and only saw the rhythmic gymnastics.

Tonight I see beyond the pool, the uneven bars, and the track. With this little boy sleeping next to me, sharing my blanket, I finally do see the obvious. The emotional reactions of the athletes and their parents tell the story. It is about the athlete's courage to chase the impossible and the family's courage to believe that their loved one can catch the impossible.

And I can have the courage to believe in my son. That much is obvious tonight.

On Stand by Me and Losing Your Virginity

Consider the iconic film Stand by Me and the losing your virginity.

These two subjects came up independently in conversation today. A seemingly light conversation about the dangers of wearing skirts around men (quite dangerous according to my informal poll) eventually found itself in loss of virginity territory.

What is a girl to do when her first becomes world famous and cryptically mentions her in press interviews? This is surely a plot for a novel, but it is also my friend's reality! When another friend mentions her first, she speaks of him as a long-lost friend even though he is her husband. I pointed this out to her. She argues that they are both different people now. She has one partner but thinks of him as two different people in this completely reasonable way.

People change. Our firsts can become famous or infamous, familiar or strange, Nobel prize winners or the perpetually overlooked man.

Attitudes change. Most in my (albeit small) circle of friends cried after their first time. For reference, we are in our thirties. I have no idea if this is the norm or if I am simply drawn to a bunch of women who cry. In talking to the younger generation, we find that teenagers today find our tears to be strange. These teens didn't cry and can't imagine why we did. We can't imagine why they wouldn't.

Pressed to explain, we can come up with partial explanation at best to explain the tears. But some part of the motivation for the tears is terribly elusive.

Until today!

Don't read that as some arrogant proclamation of "Eureka!" The fortunate juxtaposition of our Stand by Me conversation with the conversation on virginity revealed the obvious.

Why does Stand by Me speak to so many? On a literal level, the film centers around four boys who set out to see a dead body presumably at the end of the summer. On the symbolic level, the film's literal journey represents the journey out of innocence and into experience. (I'll spare you an in-depth analysis of the archetypes and references to Carl Jung and Joseph Campbell.)

After you have seen the corpse, the journeys change. Singing songs while walking the train tracks become seemingly inappropriate when they once surfaced organically and with a carefree spirit.

And that is worth a few tears.

It isn't that innocence is better than experience. Both obviously have their virtues and pitfalls. As we become experienced, we cry because we can't have both the experience and the innocence. We cry because we can't go back.

There is something magical about those transitional times--those summers which precede the inevitable death and dying in the autumn. You are on your way to seeing the corpse. You know after you see the corpse everything will change, but you have to see the corpse. Your curiosity overwhelms you.

Just like Gordie Lachance wistfully remembers the friend he had when he was twelve, we all wistfully remember those last moments of innocence that we shared with the boys before they became famous, or our husbands, or complete strangers.

On a Shrinking World

I love it when the world proves to be smaller than expected, but all things should have a limit.

During my childhood, I had my share of friends moving away at different points. One friend, Tony G., moved away during our freshman year of high school. This was in the early 1990s. This was before the expansion of the internet and well before cell phone plans with no long distance charges. Keeping in touch with friends who moved away was done the old fashioned way—through letters and the occasional phone call permitted begrudgingly by parents.

Fast forward to my last quarter at UCLA. It was 1999. I was taking Latin for no other reason than I thought it would be fun. I was not planning on a career in a field that relies heavily on Latin-derived jargon. I simply thought it would be cool to take Latin. I had met the requirements for my major and was just earning units at this point. Near the end of the quarter, I hear someone call out my name. It was Tony G. We had easily lost contact for probably five years. It was such a pleasant surprise seeing him there. The best part was he was taking Ancient Greek next door. I love the odds that we both decided on taking dead languages at that precise moment in our lives.

The world seemed a little smaller with that reunion.

That reconnection makes for good storytelling, but I have plenty of other moments of reconnection. Leaving home to attend college means separation from your old high school friends. Graduation from college means another separation, and suddenly you have old college friends. I consider myself to be fortunate to have been born in the late 1970s. Not only do I have fond memories of music videos on MTV, but I also was able to experience separation and serendipitous reconnection.

Essentially, I lived a lot of life before social networking boomed into existence. For this, I am thankful.

Now young adults really don’t have to leave old friends behind. They can stay connected through social networking sites like Facebook or MySpace. Websites like those have allowed me to make contact with many old lost friends (including Tony G. who I had lost contact with after reconnecting at UCLA). So far my childhood friends have become amazing adults! So a big part of me likes these sites, but the mother part of me is afraid for my son.

Will my son experience that separation and the subsequent joy that comes with reconnection? He will not because the world has grown too small.The readily available connections of our age mean he won’t get to experience those absences.

It is when I think of these sorts of things that I feel old and a bit old-fashioned. I feel like I am morphing into this caricature of a mom who says to her child, “You know when I was your age ::insert memory here::”

But I’m sure that I am not alone. I am sure that these feelings are fairly universal. Each generation pities the next for missing out on those special moments. I’m curious as to what my worries my own mother harbored watching me grow up. Did she worry that I was pampered by a word processor when she had to use a typewriter? Was she concerned that cable television would rob me of my imagination?

Then I think of my son having a child of his own. And I cannot fathom what he and members of his generation will think as they watch their own children live in this increasingly shrinking accelerated world.

On This Blog

I really can be a better writer if I only applied myself.

This is me applying myself.