by Elie Wiesel
I scarcely have words to describe this book. It’s short – about 115 pages if you skip the introduction and the foreword (don’t skip them, or if you do, take the time to go back and read them). I think it took me about an hour and a half to get through it, mostly because I was rushing and just wanted it to be over. I’ve still got some guilt about that, actually. Part of me feels obligated to read it every single day, as a reminder of what humans are capable of when we don’t honor and respect one another’s humanity.
As a child, Wiesel’s family was incarcerated in Auschwitz. I say incarcerated because really, what other verb works here? Wiesel could easily and justifiably have written a lengthy, melodramatic, lecturing tome, but instead “Night” is simple, straightforward, and easily one of the most heartbreaking, nauseating, soul-crushing pieces of literature I’ve ever read. Ever.
It would take me far more than 115 pages to describe how vividly Wiesel talks of torment, starvation, death, and human nature. I’ll skip all of that and settle on telling you all to read it. Right this minute.
“For the survivor who chooses to testify, it is clear: his duty is to bear witness for the dead and for the living. He has no right to deprive future generations of a past that belongs to our collective memory. To forget would be not only dangerous but offensive; to forget the dead would be akin to killing them a second time.”
“I am not so naïve as to believe that this slim volume will change the course of history or shake the conscience of the world. Books no longer have the power they once did. Those who kept silent yesterday will remain silent tomorrow.”
20 November 2012
The Language of Flowers
by Vanessa Diffenbaugh
I began this book first because it was recommended by a friend, and then because Goodreads reviews were pretty much universally positive. Disclaimer: If you’re looking for “literature,” you should probably look elsewhere. I think this probably best falls under the category of Women’s Fiction, but whatever.
Apparently, Victorian couples communicated through flowers, each species of which has a distinct meaning and message. Now, in all honesty, I have no idea how popular or widespread this communication technique was historically, and I don’t intend to do the research to find out. Nonetheless, I have to acknowledge that the idea of it is certainly romantic, and potentially secret enough for Victorians to find erotic. Ostensibly, this flower language is what the book is about, and if you’re into flowers or secret messages, you will probably enjoy the secondary romance plot. Maybe because I work directly with court wards and foster children, I found the flowers far less intriguing than the characters.
Victoria Jones is a young woman who’s recently aged out of foster care. That may not seem significant, really, except that it is, I promise you. The child dependency process and the foster care system are specifically designed to protect against the exact situation in which Victoria finds herself: suddenly adult and without a home, a family, or a livelihood. Ideally, children without parents find stability – permanence – within a couple years of entering the system, at most. Victoria never found permanence, and though she would blame herself – tell you it’s because she was a constant disappointment and repeatedly failed to meet the requirements of successive placements – that’s not altogether true. Victoria – and many real-life children like her – are failed by the system that is designed to protect them.
Reading this book made me think a lot about the children whose welfare is entrusted, in part, to me. As a guardian ad litem, what does it mean for me to advocate for their best interests? Chick lit or not, it’s not every book that makes me reassess the way I do my job. Diffenbaugh understands foster children. Somehow, she articulates the fear, doubt, aggravation, and deep affection between children and their foster parents. I’m familiar with the dynamic, but I don’t think anyone I know is capable of so effectively characterizing it at such a soulful level.
I began this book first because it was recommended by a friend, and then because Goodreads reviews were pretty much universally positive. Disclaimer: If you’re looking for “literature,” you should probably look elsewhere. I think this probably best falls under the category of Women’s Fiction, but whatever.
Apparently, Victorian couples communicated through flowers, each species of which has a distinct meaning and message. Now, in all honesty, I have no idea how popular or widespread this communication technique was historically, and I don’t intend to do the research to find out. Nonetheless, I have to acknowledge that the idea of it is certainly romantic, and potentially secret enough for Victorians to find erotic. Ostensibly, this flower language is what the book is about, and if you’re into flowers or secret messages, you will probably enjoy the secondary romance plot. Maybe because I work directly with court wards and foster children, I found the flowers far less intriguing than the characters.
Victoria Jones is a young woman who’s recently aged out of foster care. That may not seem significant, really, except that it is, I promise you. The child dependency process and the foster care system are specifically designed to protect against the exact situation in which Victoria finds herself: suddenly adult and without a home, a family, or a livelihood. Ideally, children without parents find stability – permanence – within a couple years of entering the system, at most. Victoria never found permanence, and though she would blame herself – tell you it’s because she was a constant disappointment and repeatedly failed to meet the requirements of successive placements – that’s not altogether true. Victoria – and many real-life children like her – are failed by the system that is designed to protect them.
Reading this book made me think a lot about the children whose welfare is entrusted, in part, to me. As a guardian ad litem, what does it mean for me to advocate for their best interests? Chick lit or not, it’s not every book that makes me reassess the way I do my job. Diffenbaugh understands foster children. Somehow, she articulates the fear, doubt, aggravation, and deep affection between children and their foster parents. I’m familiar with the dynamic, but I don’t think anyone I know is capable of so effectively characterizing it at such a soulful level.
19 November 2012
Thankful
The holidays are a strange time, huh? It's the end of the year, and just as I'm relishing in a tiny bit of relief from triple-digit Arizona summertime temperatures, I'm thrown into this whirlwind season of forced festivity and gift-giving anxiety. Even shopping, which I love, reduces me to a ball of stress because I become neurotically fearful of choosing the wrong present and disappointing someone that I love. Every public building - malls, post offices, grocery stores, airports - morphs into a sea of humanity that sets my teeth on edge and makes me want to run, screaming, toward the nearest exit. In the middle of my panic, though, I occasionally have moments of lucidity, seconds when I remember that all of this stress is simply a distraction from what's important, and that the method of celebration really shouldn't detract from that which is being celebrated.
I am blessed, and fortunate, and happy.
And so, I am thankful:
For lipgloss, the redder the better, and sparkly nail polish, any color (except orange, because as Blake says, "Orange is for Auburn." YUCK!).
For Blake, Malak, Abby, Mattie Grace, and Isaiah, and especially this year, for Charlie and Ben. Nothing makes holidays more magical than big smiles on little faces.
For pretty shoes.
For NPR.
For old friends, most of whom are distant geographically but close in all the ways that matter.
For new friends who are becoming old friends, and who are there to laugh at all my various predicaments, and then help me get out of them, and then laugh some more.
For my DVR.
For a mom who doesn't stop answering the phone even after I've called her nine times in half an hour.
For a dad who taught me to love the law, and never gets tired of me asking him to explain it to me just one more time.
For my grandparents, Horace and Ruthie. Nothing I say could ever be enough, so I won't try.
For philosophy's eye hope under-eye cream.
For cousins who were like siblings as we grew up, and more importantly, who are my friends now.
For a job that's more than just a job, and for coworkers who are more than just coworkers.
For good music.
For The MISS Foundation, which reminds me to be grateful, mindful, and gentle, and which inspires me to live and love fiercely.
For Google.
For Google maps.
For Instagram, Skype, Goodreads, Facebook, text messaging, email, and mobile phones. My friends and family are busier than ever and scattered to the four winds, but I still get to laugh with them when they're happy, cry with them when they're not, share with them a well-beloved book, watch their babies grow, and tell them I love them.
For a hairdresser who doesn't mind a challenge, or that I constantly change my mind.
For sweet tea.
For pearls.
For Sephora (and Barney's).*
For the quickly-approaching awards season.*
For a God who lavishes His grace, mercy, and forgiveness even when I forget to ask and even when I don't deserve it, and who answers prayers I didn't even know to say.
Happy, Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. xo, avb
*Added at the request of SCM, who knows me so well.
I am blessed, and fortunate, and happy.
And so, I am thankful:
For lipgloss, the redder the better, and sparkly nail polish, any color (except orange, because as Blake says, "Orange is for Auburn." YUCK!).
For Blake, Malak, Abby, Mattie Grace, and Isaiah, and especially this year, for Charlie and Ben. Nothing makes holidays more magical than big smiles on little faces.
For pretty shoes.
For NPR.
For old friends, most of whom are distant geographically but close in all the ways that matter.
For new friends who are becoming old friends, and who are there to laugh at all my various predicaments, and then help me get out of them, and then laugh some more.
For my DVR.
For a mom who doesn't stop answering the phone even after I've called her nine times in half an hour.
For a dad who taught me to love the law, and never gets tired of me asking him to explain it to me just one more time.
For my grandparents, Horace and Ruthie. Nothing I say could ever be enough, so I won't try.
For philosophy's eye hope under-eye cream.
For cousins who were like siblings as we grew up, and more importantly, who are my friends now.
For a job that's more than just a job, and for coworkers who are more than just coworkers.
For good music.
For The MISS Foundation, which reminds me to be grateful, mindful, and gentle, and which inspires me to live and love fiercely.
For Google.
For Google maps.
For Instagram, Skype, Goodreads, Facebook, text messaging, email, and mobile phones. My friends and family are busier than ever and scattered to the four winds, but I still get to laugh with them when they're happy, cry with them when they're not, share with them a well-beloved book, watch their babies grow, and tell them I love them.
For a hairdresser who doesn't mind a challenge, or that I constantly change my mind.
For sweet tea.
For pearls.
For Sephora (and Barney's).*
For the quickly-approaching awards season.*
For a God who lavishes His grace, mercy, and forgiveness even when I forget to ask and even when I don't deserve it, and who answers prayers I didn't even know to say.
Happy, Happy Thanksgiving, y'all. xo, avb
*Added at the request of SCM, who knows me so well.
01 November 2012
"It's about to be Halloween..."
So much has happened in my life during the past year, though looking at this pitiful blog, you’d never know it. I’m gonna’ try to do better, though. Promise. And to start, I want to talk about the most significant addition to my agenda.
About two years ago, I started reading a blog, Rockstar Ronan, at the urging of my boss at the time. She had gone to law school with the blogger’s husband, and she told me about how her friends’ son had been diagnosed with Neuroblastoma, a particularly insidious and deadly form of childhood cancer. Ronan lived in the Phoenix area with his family, so maybe that’s why I immediately felt such a connection to them; I joined thousands of others in sending up prayers for his healing. The blog posts were primarily positive and funny, mostly because Ronan is such a cutie, and his mom often posted photos of him. Y’all know how I love kid photos. Though I wasn’t a daily reader at first, I almost always checked in weekly to see how Ronan’s treatments were progressing, and to be honest, I was really quite certain that he would recover because he never “looked” sick in pictures, and his mom’s stubbornly bubbly tone made a cure seem inevitable.
One day in May 2011, I found out that Ronan had died. And then Taylor Swift wrote a song called “Ronan.” And somewhere in the middle of those two things, I learned about the MISS Foundation and Dr. Joanne Cacciatore.
I remember the night I filled out the application to volunteer with MISS. I had just read a particularly heart-breaking blog post, and I sat in the middle of my bed and typed out my responses to the application’s questions on my iPhone. To be honest, I never thought I’d even be contacted again. What could I possibly offer them?
Fast-forward to July 2012. I had accepted a new job and planned to start following a week-long vacation with my mama (btw, we had so much fun). Right about that time, I got an email from MISS explaining that they had reviewed my volunteer application and wanted to know if I was interested in a position on their Executive Board of Directors. I was shocked. Also, humbled, terrified, and a little bit speechless, which doesn’t happen to me very often, as y’all know. I spent a couple hours on the phone with some of their leaders, and I fell in love with their spirit, their kindness, their energy, and their motivation.
I’ve been on the Board for all of two months now. It’s been more rewarding that I can even articulate.
And so now it’s about to be Thanksgiving. In addition to being more thankful than ever for all of the beautiful babies in my life, I am also grateful that MISS is here for all the families with missing babies. And, I’m so grateful that I get to be a part of that.
About two years ago, I started reading a blog, Rockstar Ronan, at the urging of my boss at the time. She had gone to law school with the blogger’s husband, and she told me about how her friends’ son had been diagnosed with Neuroblastoma, a particularly insidious and deadly form of childhood cancer. Ronan lived in the Phoenix area with his family, so maybe that’s why I immediately felt such a connection to them; I joined thousands of others in sending up prayers for his healing. The blog posts were primarily positive and funny, mostly because Ronan is such a cutie, and his mom often posted photos of him. Y’all know how I love kid photos. Though I wasn’t a daily reader at first, I almost always checked in weekly to see how Ronan’s treatments were progressing, and to be honest, I was really quite certain that he would recover because he never “looked” sick in pictures, and his mom’s stubbornly bubbly tone made a cure seem inevitable.
One day in May 2011, I found out that Ronan had died. And then Taylor Swift wrote a song called “Ronan.” And somewhere in the middle of those two things, I learned about the MISS Foundation and Dr. Joanne Cacciatore.
I remember the night I filled out the application to volunteer with MISS. I had just read a particularly heart-breaking blog post, and I sat in the middle of my bed and typed out my responses to the application’s questions on my iPhone. To be honest, I never thought I’d even be contacted again. What could I possibly offer them?
Fast-forward to July 2012. I had accepted a new job and planned to start following a week-long vacation with my mama (btw, we had so much fun). Right about that time, I got an email from MISS explaining that they had reviewed my volunteer application and wanted to know if I was interested in a position on their Executive Board of Directors. I was shocked. Also, humbled, terrified, and a little bit speechless, which doesn’t happen to me very often, as y’all know. I spent a couple hours on the phone with some of their leaders, and I fell in love with their spirit, their kindness, their energy, and their motivation.
I’ve been on the Board for all of two months now. It’s been more rewarding that I can even articulate.
And so now it’s about to be Thanksgiving. In addition to being more thankful than ever for all of the beautiful babies in my life, I am also grateful that MISS is here for all the families with missing babies. And, I’m so grateful that I get to be a part of that.
13 October 2011
Teaching? Really?
After a brief hiatus, I'm back to blogging. And as my first order of business, I suppose I should report that Monday, I will begin my first day of teaching. No, no, I didn't quit my job in a fit of rage and exasperation. Instead, I decided that perhaps it would be nice to have another outlet for all my non-existent free time.
A while back I sent my resume in to Rio Salado Community College. It was just a whim, really. Several friends of mine teach at various community colleges in the valley, so I thought I'd apply and see what happened. I got a call last week, and lo and behold, got offered a position as an adjunct professor. I'll be teached PAR102, and if you know anything at all about that class besides that it's a course for paralegals, then you're ahead of me.
It's all online, which is great because that means it won't interfere with 1) my trip to Austin in November, or 2) my holiday plans. It pays great, so I'm hoping that I love it.
Wish me luck! And you might want to throw in some wishes for my students. We all know that I am not the most patient person on the planet.
A while back I sent my resume in to Rio Salado Community College. It was just a whim, really. Several friends of mine teach at various community colleges in the valley, so I thought I'd apply and see what happened. I got a call last week, and lo and behold, got offered a position as an adjunct professor. I'll be teached PAR102, and if you know anything at all about that class besides that it's a course for paralegals, then you're ahead of me.
It's all online, which is great because that means it won't interfere with 1) my trip to Austin in November, or 2) my holiday plans. It pays great, so I'm hoping that I love it.
Wish me luck! And you might want to throw in some wishes for my students. We all know that I am not the most patient person on the planet.
24 May 2011
Fried plantains
AKA: Yumminess, the likes of which you've never before experienced. Nick taught me to make them during my visit.
Use coconut oil, which looks vaguely like Crisco when you buy it. Heat it on top of the stove in a pretty sturdy pot until it liquifies and reaches a medium heat.
Use a mandoline or a food processor to turn your plantains into 1) very thin coin shapes, or 2) long, thin strips. Plop them into the oil, and when they've browned on one side, flip them over. They'll kind of start to float as they get done.
Nick wanted to try them with guacamole, which I think would have been really good. Alas, all the avocadoes had gone bad, so we didn't get to make any. We just sprinkled with salt while they were still hot, and they were SO good.
Babies!
I'm not sure whether it's because of what I do for a living (probably), or because I just love baby cuteness (probably), but I can't think of a time in recent memory when I've been quite as excited as I was on May 13 to leave for Indianapolis. My best friend, who's like my sister, had a baby boy back in February, and finally, I got to go visit them!
Nikki and I lived together for five years, from our second year in undergrad all the way through her graduation, which was my first year in law school. After she graduated, she moved to Indianapolis, and then about a year later, she and Nick (another high school friend of mine) got married. Now that I live in Arizona and she still lives in Indianapolis, I haven't gotten to see her nearly as often as I would like to. Phone calls and texting are great, but it's not the same...especially if you lived together for as long as we did.
My flight landed really late. Nikki picked me up, and we got to spend a little time catching up during the drive to her house. I went straight to bed, and the next morning, I got to meet Baby Wyatt! Oh, my goodness, he looks like Nick and he is just the happiest little man! In my five days there, I think he cried maybe twice, and aside from a minor poo-in-the-bathtub incident, it was all smooth sailing. In fact, I'm certain that the bathtub/poo ordeal was *waaay* more bothersome for me and his mama (given that we were the ones who cleaned it up) than it was for him. Wyatt stayed calm and happy through the whole thing. Pretty sure he even laughed.
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| Nikki and me in 2006, law school graduation. |
Nikki and I lived together for five years, from our second year in undergrad all the way through her graduation, which was my first year in law school. After she graduated, she moved to Indianapolis, and then about a year later, she and Nick (another high school friend of mine) got married. Now that I live in Arizona and she still lives in Indianapolis, I haven't gotten to see her nearly as often as I would like to. Phone calls and texting are great, but it's not the same...especially if you lived together for as long as we did.
My flight landed really late. Nikki picked me up, and we got to spend a little time catching up during the drive to her house. I went straight to bed, and the next morning, I got to meet Baby Wyatt! Oh, my goodness, he looks like Nick and he is just the happiest little man! In my five days there, I think he cried maybe twice, and aside from a minor poo-in-the-bathtub incident, it was all smooth sailing. In fact, I'm certain that the bathtub/poo ordeal was *waaay* more bothersome for me and his mama (given that we were the ones who cleaned it up) than it was for him. Wyatt stayed calm and happy through the whole thing. Pretty sure he even laughed.
Pretty sure he even laughed.
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| Look at this sweet face. I couldn't stop kissing it. |
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| HA! |
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| My favorite picture. I cannot get enough of those eyes! |
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| Aunties are supposed to spoil the baby, right? |
I had an amazing time, and I needed it so badly. Nikki let me hold and snuggle him lots and lots. I even got to try to feed him once, but that didn't go so well. Wyatt is NOT a bottle baby, and he's not afraid to say so! I wish the best of luck to his future daycare workers... Better them than me, though; I can't handle how sad and forlorn he sounded when all he wanted was to nurse.
Work has been particularly stressful lately, and just smelling that sweet baby smell and listening to Wyatt's coos and giggles fed my spirit. Already, I can't wait to go back.
09 May 2011
If you're in the market for a painting...
A while back, I was reading BooMama's blog and she had a photo of a beautiful painting she'd just found at a little shop in Birmingham. I fell in love immediately, and serendipitously, I had been searching for the perfect birthday gift for my mom.
My mom. Impossible to buy gifts for because she never asks for anything (except practical things like vacuum cleaners and work shoes, which are not really all that much fun to buy). We are not alike in this way; I ask for unpractical things all. the. time. But I digress.
She'd just gotten a new position at work, which meant that she'd no longer be working as a floor nurse. Instead, she had her own office, and she'd be handling infection control at her hospital. Sounds icky to me, but really, she's been having lots of back and shoulder problems recently, so I was happy that the new position was less demanding physically.
Anyway, these paintings were perfect for her. Kinda folksy, lots of bright colors, and scripture: PER-FECT. So, I Googled, and found out that the artist, Linda Dunn, has a business called Simply Hope. I emailed her, and she is SWEET AS PIE, I tell you. She and I communicated pretty regularly for a few months, and eventually,we settled on a design, the colors, and the verse she'd incorporate into the painting for my mama. And she was so patient every time I changed my mind or had a question. I can't wait to order a few more for some other people!
I had the gift shipped to my mom's house, mostly because I wanted her to die of anticipation while she was waiting to open it. Long story short (and really, I am leaving out LOTS because before we could hang the painting in her office, we had to do some renovation -- that office was in awful shape): SHE LOVED IT. And so do I.
My mom. Impossible to buy gifts for because she never asks for anything (except practical things like vacuum cleaners and work shoes, which are not really all that much fun to buy). We are not alike in this way; I ask for unpractical things all. the. time. But I digress.
She'd just gotten a new position at work, which meant that she'd no longer be working as a floor nurse. Instead, she had her own office, and she'd be handling infection control at her hospital. Sounds icky to me, but really, she's been having lots of back and shoulder problems recently, so I was happy that the new position was less demanding physically.
Anyway, these paintings were perfect for her. Kinda folksy, lots of bright colors, and scripture: PER-FECT. So, I Googled, and found out that the artist, Linda Dunn, has a business called Simply Hope. I emailed her, and she is SWEET AS PIE, I tell you. She and I communicated pretty regularly for a few months, and eventually,we settled on a design, the colors, and the verse she'd incorporate into the painting for my mama. And she was so patient every time I changed my mind or had a question. I can't wait to order a few more for some other people!
I had the gift shipped to my mom's house, mostly because I wanted her to die of anticipation while she was waiting to open it. Long story short (and really, I am leaving out LOTS because before we could hang the painting in her office, we had to do some renovation -- that office was in awful shape): SHE LOVED IT. And so do I.
06 May 2011
The Tornado
I lived in Alabama for a long time. My whole life, up until I moved across the country (for reasons that I cannot remember, and that I'm not sure I even knew at that time). My home state gets its fair share of bad weather, and some of the clearest memories I have are the times spent staring at the television, wondering how long it would be before the tornado sirens started blaring. I think I learned how to read a weather map about the same time I learned my multiplication tables.
I don't remember much about kindergarten, but I can still smell the wax used to polish the floors, and feel the coolness of the wood against the backs of my legs the first time the weather forced me to sit, Indian-style, in the hallway, arms folded to protect my face, while the wind howled outside and our teachers comforted us.
My friend, Staci, and I were in New Orleans buying her wedding gown when we first heard that Katrina had turned and was projected to hit Louisiana. Both our mothers began calling ceaselessly until we assured them that we were in her car, headed back to Tuscaloosa. Hurricanes in the Gulf beget tornadoes farther inland, and Katrina proved no exception. Staci and I rode out the storm at my house in Northport, crammed for a while in my tiny guest bathroom -- because Alabama children are taught young that when bad weather heads your way, you set up camp in the center of your house, away from windows and doors. I was in law school at the time, and my whole life was inside my laptop. I wrapped it in some trash bags and put it in the dryer, reasoning that even if one of the pine trees in my backyard came through the roof, the double layer of protection would insure against water damage. It's crazy what you start to prioritize as you come to terms with the idea of a tornado actually hitting your home.
Thanks to James Spann and a lot of prayer, we got through just fine and were only minorly inconvenienced by an 8-hour power outage. As everyone knows, thousands and thousands and thousands of people were not as lucky.
I, and hundreds of other students, spent the subsequent weeks volunteering -- collecting canned goods, serving food, doing anything we could to keep ourselves busy and make the displaced hurricane victims just a little more comfortable. Students from Tulane and other NOLA schools moved to town and became our classmates and roommates for a semester, and our friends for a lifetime. We all seemed to feel helpless individually, but we took solace in the fact that together, maybe we could accomplish something.
It's the helplessness that grips me now.
Here I am, thousands of miles and four states away from Tuscaloosa, which was my home for seven years. I see photos, and I hear stories, and I am just so sad. The years I spent in Tuscaloosa are easily some of the funnest, most precious parts of my life, and the friends I made there are still among the people I hold most dear. To see the city destroyed, and then to be too far away to help rebuild it -- well, it frankly sucks. Writing a check or buying a t-shirt just does not leave me with the same sense of having helped anybody, and though I've done both, I wish more than anything that I could do more.
Parts of Choctaw County, where I grew up, were just leveled. My dad likened it to having a vacuum cleaner run loose through the woods, 200-year old oak trees splintered like twigs along the way. My mom told me that today alone, my home church (First Assembly of God) fed nearly 150 people who had been affected by the tornadoes there. To put that in perspective, the entire population of Choctaw County hovers around 15,000. And they fed 150 on a. single. day.
On a brighter note, I am proud. I'm proud of the resilience shown by so many of my fellow Alabamians. Their unwavering hope and faith that everything will get back to normal. Their untiring work, not only for themselves and their neighbors, but for people they don't even know. For all the people harboring negative impressions about the South, I believe that when they read the NY Times, or listen to a story on NPR, or watch CNN to see the latest news about the storm damage, what they see will be our fierce determination, our dedication to our neighbors in need, and our satisfaction in having gathered together to help ourselves. And they will see that even in the face of adversity and death and destruction, our spirit not only survives, but thrives.
I don't remember much about kindergarten, but I can still smell the wax used to polish the floors, and feel the coolness of the wood against the backs of my legs the first time the weather forced me to sit, Indian-style, in the hallway, arms folded to protect my face, while the wind howled outside and our teachers comforted us.
My friend, Staci, and I were in New Orleans buying her wedding gown when we first heard that Katrina had turned and was projected to hit Louisiana. Both our mothers began calling ceaselessly until we assured them that we were in her car, headed back to Tuscaloosa. Hurricanes in the Gulf beget tornadoes farther inland, and Katrina proved no exception. Staci and I rode out the storm at my house in Northport, crammed for a while in my tiny guest bathroom -- because Alabama children are taught young that when bad weather heads your way, you set up camp in the center of your house, away from windows and doors. I was in law school at the time, and my whole life was inside my laptop. I wrapped it in some trash bags and put it in the dryer, reasoning that even if one of the pine trees in my backyard came through the roof, the double layer of protection would insure against water damage. It's crazy what you start to prioritize as you come to terms with the idea of a tornado actually hitting your home.
Thanks to James Spann and a lot of prayer, we got through just fine and were only minorly inconvenienced by an 8-hour power outage. As everyone knows, thousands and thousands and thousands of people were not as lucky.
I, and hundreds of other students, spent the subsequent weeks volunteering -- collecting canned goods, serving food, doing anything we could to keep ourselves busy and make the displaced hurricane victims just a little more comfortable. Students from Tulane and other NOLA schools moved to town and became our classmates and roommates for a semester, and our friends for a lifetime. We all seemed to feel helpless individually, but we took solace in the fact that together, maybe we could accomplish something.
It's the helplessness that grips me now.
Here I am, thousands of miles and four states away from Tuscaloosa, which was my home for seven years. I see photos, and I hear stories, and I am just so sad. The years I spent in Tuscaloosa are easily some of the funnest, most precious parts of my life, and the friends I made there are still among the people I hold most dear. To see the city destroyed, and then to be too far away to help rebuild it -- well, it frankly sucks. Writing a check or buying a t-shirt just does not leave me with the same sense of having helped anybody, and though I've done both, I wish more than anything that I could do more.
Parts of Choctaw County, where I grew up, were just leveled. My dad likened it to having a vacuum cleaner run loose through the woods, 200-year old oak trees splintered like twigs along the way. My mom told me that today alone, my home church (First Assembly of God) fed nearly 150 people who had been affected by the tornadoes there. To put that in perspective, the entire population of Choctaw County hovers around 15,000. And they fed 150 on a. single. day.
On a brighter note, I am proud. I'm proud of the resilience shown by so many of my fellow Alabamians. Their unwavering hope and faith that everything will get back to normal. Their untiring work, not only for themselves and their neighbors, but for people they don't even know. For all the people harboring negative impressions about the South, I believe that when they read the NY Times, or listen to a story on NPR, or watch CNN to see the latest news about the storm damage, what they see will be our fierce determination, our dedication to our neighbors in need, and our satisfaction in having gathered together to help ourselves. And they will see that even in the face of adversity and death and destruction, our spirit not only survives, but thrives.
01 December 2010
Clinique Superbalm Lip Treatment
This stuff sucks.
I don't think I've ever been quite so disappointed in a product. Ever. If you're just dying to spend 12 bucks on something that sits on your lips and feels greasy, just go buy 6 tubs of Vaseline. It'll last a lot longer, and I'm betting it'll work better. If you're wanting something, though, that lives up to the promise that Clinique makes about their lip treatment, ("Deeply hydrating balm that helps to repair distressed lips and replenishes moisture loss.") then skip the Clinique counter and head over to Philosophy for their Hope in a Tube Eye & Lip Cream. As an added bonus, it fights wrinkles, too.
I don't think I've ever been quite so disappointed in a product. Ever. If you're just dying to spend 12 bucks on something that sits on your lips and feels greasy, just go buy 6 tubs of Vaseline. It'll last a lot longer, and I'm betting it'll work better. If you're wanting something, though, that lives up to the promise that Clinique makes about their lip treatment, ("Deeply hydrating balm that helps to repair distressed lips and replenishes moisture loss.") then skip the Clinique counter and head over to Philosophy for their Hope in a Tube Eye & Lip Cream. As an added bonus, it fights wrinkles, too.
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