therestlessnest

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Archive for the category “women’s rights”

Anger Management

1982-calendar

His calendar? Does anyone really think a 17-year-old boy would put a drinking party at the home of a friend whose parents would definitely not be present on his calendar?

            Thanks a lot, New York Times News Alert. Just when I was getting my anger under control, just when I was beginning to believe I might be able to think about something besides the upcoming Brett Kavanaugh hearing in which he will reiterate to us that he categorically denies Dr. Christine Blasey Ford’s allegations of sexual assault—now this: Kavanaugh’s 1982 calendar, which features “basketball games, movie outings, football workouts and college interviews. A few parties are mentioned, but include names of friends other than those identified by Dr. Blasey.”

I’m aware that I’ve been on a low simmer for a solid week; that this would not be a good time for me to have my blood pressure checked. But I thought I was managing my anger, until the news alert about the calendar. And that was before the latest news about a second allegation from a college classmate.

One night about 41 years ago, I made a mistake and missed a train. I was in Geneva, and I missed the last train to Paris. I was 19, and traveling on a ridiculous budget. I had no Swiss francs left and no credit card. It was nearly midnight. A 30-something American in an expensive trench coat offered to take me to his parents’ home, where I could sleep in the guest bedroom. I sized him up as best I could and said yes. There was something about the trench coat that seemed so respectable to my young eyes. And he said he was a pilot. And that his parents were diplomats. I can’t remember why, if I ever knew, he was sitting at the train station as the Paris train pulled away.

So surely it was my fault, right? When I woke up in the wee hours of the morning, in the guest room, and he was on top of me?

That’s what I wrote in 2013, which was the last time I wrote about what happened to me in Geneva. My anger got the best of me after watching Chris Cuomo grill Amanda Knox about her sex life as if she was the she-devil incarnate, as opposed to a young American woman who was trying to rebuild her life after being wrongly convicted of murder and imprisoned in Italy for four years. I wonder if Knox would have had an easier time on her book tour for her memoir if she had released the book now, in the #MeToo era?

I doubt it. #MeToo, shmee-too. That’s what we’re seeing this month. If Kavanaugh’s “team,” as the Times calls the people “working for his confirmation,” as if his confirmation is a sporting event—if this team really believes Kavanaugh’s 1982 calendar is a persuasive document, then the #MeToo movement still has a long, long way to go.

I wonder if Mr. Trenchcoat’s calendar from January 1977 included entries like, “11pm Sunday: lurk about train station?”

And I wonder why a 30-something pilot would hang around the train station instead of just going to a bar, which was the customary way to pick up women in those olden days? Was all that flirting and buying of drinks just too much work? Or did he favor young college students who had a look of panic about them?

And I wonder: what would I do if I read in the Times one day that someone was running for office, or was about to be appointed to a high court, who had lived in Geneva in his thirties, had been an airline pilot, and whose parents had been diplomats? Not likely, I know. He’d be in his seventies now. I didn’t even know his name. I might have known it, for a day or two, but I have no record of it in my late-teen journals, which were no doubt much wordier than Kavanaugh’s late-teen calendar, but still lacking in many details.

Dr. Blasey was not so lucky. She remembered Kavanaugh’s name. And because she cares about her country and about our highest court, she felt compelled to say something.

I don’t blame her for trying to remain anonymous. Now that she’s not and never will be again, my hope for her is that at the end of this week, she will feel that speaking out was worth it.

Just thinking about her bravery is helping me manage my anger, and I mean manage: not suppress, not eliminate, but manage it, like a sharp and useful tool.

 

 

 

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Reinvention II

IMG_1047It’s only been two weeks.

And as I write, the students of Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Parkland, Florida have finished their first full day of classes since February 14, 2018: a Valentine’s Day that may have started sweetly, for some, but ended, for all, in horror.

And now, like it or not, they are engaging in that classic American project: reinvention.

Two years ago, I wrote a Restless Nest post about reinvention that now reads like a runic record of ancient times. It’s about reinvention as practiced by people my age; the kind that is motivated by benign milestones like career changes, downsizing, upsizing, retirement. It was written in that naïve era when we all assumed Hillary Clinton would be our next president; when we never would have dreamed that political vigilance would soon require an unprecedented amount of our time and attention.

Fourteen students and three adults from Marjory Stoneman Douglas will never have those kinds of opportunities for reinvention. Or political vigilance.

But their surviving classmates are wasting no time.

Two weeks ago, they were kids. Now, they are mourners and activists. And they are unafraid to say what needs to be said about gun violence and the complicity of the National Rifle Association and all the politicians the NRA grooms as its well-paid pawns. They are unafraid to reinvent themselves and their lives in honor of the friends they lost.

And look at the effect they’re having: in statehouses, in Washington, D.C., in the offices of corporate CEOs, including, as of this morning, Edward Stack, the chief executive of Dick’s Sporting Goods. Do not underestimate the power of a group of young people united by grief and anger and ready for reinvention.

Their school’s namesake would have approved. By the time Marjory Stoneman Douglas was a teen, her parents were divorced and her mother was in a mental institution. At Wellesley College, she excelled in elocution and joined the Suffrage Club. Months after she graduated in 1912, her mother died of breast cancer. By the time she was 25, Douglas had survived a disastrous first marriage and started her career in journalism at the Miami Herald. Later in her life, she championed the cause of saving the Florida Everglades. Douglas modeled creative reinvention through every decade of her life. She lived to be 108.

I have no doubt that many of the young Parkland activists will live lives as equally fruitful, long and full of reinvention as the life of Marjory Stoneman Douglas.

In the immediate future, may their reinvention ripple effect just keep flowing: beyond Ed Stack to other CEOs; beyond Tallahassee to every statehouse; beyond their showdown with Senator Marco Rubio to a world where lawmakers of both parties can and will say “No, thanks,” to the NRA and its money.

Reinvention can be beautiful to behold.

Seattle readers: I’ll be teaching Intro to Memoir Writing at Seattle Central College beginning April 9. Six Monday evenings. Registration is open now. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

After 2017: Wound Care

IMG_0918One year ago—before the Inauguration, before the women’s marches, before everything else that has happened since—I attended a New Year’s Eve get-together at which everyone made a prediction for 2017.
Mine was that the next (“hopefully great”) Democratic presidential candidate, “someone we haven’t even thought of yet,” would emerge by the end of this year. Others predicted that Trump would be impeached. Or that his first Supreme Court nominee would somehow be blocked. Some guests offered more general forecasts: “the pendulum will swing;” “people will come to their senses.” My husband vowed that we would see the “total cratering” of the Republican Party. His prediction may have come closest to the mark.

And though my own hope was misplaced—I think we’re still not even close to identifying the next Democratic candidate for president—I do believe the pendulum is swinging, and many people are coming to their senses. They just may not be the same people we had hoped would come to their senses.

The people who are coming to their senses are not the people who voted for Trump. We now understand that most of them (a minority of Americans, let’s not forget) are very unlikely to change their minds. The people who are coming to their senses are us. By which I mean the whole big crazy quilt of the Left. Or “The Resistance,” as Trump now likes to call us, in air quotes, thinking that it’s a scathing put-down. To which I say: Congratulations, Everyone! We’ve made enough noise this year to get our own group nickname. Long live the Resistance!

doug-jones-alabama-victory-1513196170-article-headerWe now understand that that we will win elections by getting our own selves to the polls, including our oldsters who may need rides and our youngsters who may need to feel more firmly respected for their views. After Alabama, we now understand that we will win elections when all Democrats feel that their vote is urgently needed.

2017 has been, if anything, more dismaying than I had ever believed it would be. I’m an optimist at heart, and this has not been a great year for optimism. But now, at the end of the year, I see so many reasons to hope.

In my last post, I called Trump an infection that has put our democracy’s health at risk. I declared that we, individual citizens, are the hard-working antibiotics who will ultimately prevail. And I do believe we will. In fact I think we could see a dramatic return to health right around mid-term election time, which is not much more than ten months from now.

But, just as I learned a few things about infections this year following foot surgery, I am now learning about the next phase: wound care.

I now know that wound care is a specialty that requires unflinching precision, compassion and the ability to inspire optimism—there it is again, my favorite word!—all while gently but firmly instilling in the patient—in this case, me—the understanding that optimism must be earned, through compliance. Attention to detail.

Wounds heal. But they heal better with the right care. And so it will be for our democracy, and for us.

I would venture that even as we fight off the infection, IMG_2864we’re already starting to heal. Wanting to get better is an essential first step, and we can check that one off. The women’s marches, last January 20th? That was all of us saying: “We want to get better. We will not give in.” The fights in the courts over immigration, the push-back on the proposed repeal of Obamacare, the victories in this fall’s special elections? All are signs that we are determined to be well again, and to come back stronger than ever.  

mr-potterThis Christmas, we watched It’s a Wonderful Life for the first time in at least a few years. Wow, does it resonate in 2017. You have to wonder if Trump watches it for inspiration, trying to be more like greedy, rich Mr. Potter every day; learning to perfectly imitate Lionel Barrymore’s signature lip curl as Jimmy Stewart makes his passionate plea for the rights of working people to live in homes that they own, rather than rent hovels from a slumlord. It’s an optimist’s dream story its-a-wonderful-life-bailey-family-05line: people working together to help each other can make the world a better place. People working together can heal the wounds of depressions and wars and personal tragedies: anathema to Trump and his rogues’ gallery of hangers-on, which currently include nearly every member of the forever-tarnished Republican Party.

Infections can be swift and merciless. Wound care is nearly always painstakingly slow. And there will be scars.

On the morning of the shortest, darkest day of the year, I watched as the sun, low and crisp, lit up a long, taut length of spiderweb in the corner of our bedroom. The thread stretched all the way from the ceiling, down six feet or more, to the branch of a palm in a clay pot. I wondered why the spider had hurled out that line. I marveled that spiders can do such a thing: that they can create a new something, in an instant, where there had previously been nothing. But we do that too, when we heal; we manufacture brand-new tissue and bone and skin to fill gaps and fuse breaks and stitch cuts. We keep at it until the scars fade to pencil marks.imgres

And that is my hope for 2018. That we’ll work together. we’ll spin out lifelines; we’ll do whatever it takes to heal this democracy’s wounds.

Find your January 20th, 2018 march here.

No Ordinary Time

images“This is no ordinary time,” Eleanor Roosevelt told the Democratic Convention of 1940, “and no time for weighing anything except what we can best do for the country as a whole.” No Ordinary Time: Doris Kearns Goodwin chose that phrase to be the title of her 1994 book, subtitled Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt: The Home Front in World War II.

            Eleanor’s words have a different ring in 2017, don’t they? This is a year that feels like no ordinary time in ways that she would likely find—dismaying. Discouraging. Despicable. Or maybe not: because Eleanor knew, almost better than anyone in her day, that every step forward toward justice for all was inevitably followed by an ugly backlash. She and her husband regularly received vicious hate-mail from segregationists, sexists, and xenophobes of all kinds.

5145ij9zcwL._AC_US218_For two months, No Ordinary Time sat on my coffee table, all 636 pages of it (759, counting the end-notes and index). My father had dropped it off. He was sure I would find it as compelling as he had. I resisted. It looked so—daunting. But it only took a page or two for Goodwin’s writing to hook me and hold me.

This is a book that is both a detail-rich history lesson and a gripping summer page-turner. Reading it, I realized just how little I know about the history of World War II and about the president and first lady who steered us through those years of drama and tragedy. It is not a hagiography: Goodwin calls out, in particular, the tragic decisions to turn away Jewish refugees, the internment of Japanese-Americans and the military’s slowness to de-segregate. But reading it now, in our own un-ordinary, unsettling times, is startling in a different way. To be immersed in one of Eleanor’s epic trips—to munitions factories around the country, or to the South Pacific to visit troops—and then to see a news alert about our current president tweet-trashing transgender soldiers is to feel the hard thud of a crash-landing return to our current reality.

It’s as if those haters that used to write to Eleanor have taken over the country. And yes, of course she would be dismayed, if she were with us today, by their harsh incivility. By Anthony Scaramucci pretending to be a “communications director.” By a president whose pastimes include publicly taunting and badmouthing his own staff.

But I believe Eleanor Roosevelt would also be so proud of all the people who stood up to their senators this summer and told them: we don’t want your fake health care bill. We’re smarter than you think we are.

And I believe she would tell us: keep at it. Don’t stop. During the war, that was her message to African-Americans who dared to speak out about discrimination in the factories and on the front lines. It was her message to the women workers at Kaiser in Portland, who had the crazy idea of starting a daycare center. It was her message to the Nisei who asked her to persuade her husband to allow them to enlist.

Our own un-ordinary times may not be so noble; the stakes may not seem so high. But I think Eleanor and FDR would argue that the stakes are always high, and there is always so much to do, and we must not let the backlashers have the last word.

Upcoming readings: August 11, 2pm, Richmond Beach Library, and Sept 7, 6:30pm, Columbia City Gallery.

The Long Game

recordhighs_1498436682731_9904006_ver1.0It was the hottest evening of the year. So far. I rested my post-surgical, boot-encased foot on my husband’s leg as we sat with a group of like-minded, anxious Seattle progressives and listened to the ACLU’s state communications director answer questions.

“What should we do?” was what we wanted Doug Honig to tell us. Meaning: about Trump? During his presidency? What should we do? How can we help?

Honig’s advice, which I’m paraphrasing and which he delivered with more nuance, was essentially this: Try to stop obsessing about Trump. This isn’t about Trump, this is about the Republican plan to remake our country. The Republicans have deep pockets and many loyal foot soldiers and they are in this for the long game. And so we need to be, too.web17-muslimbancapitol-1160x768

What does that mean? It means supporting local, state and national politicians and candidates who stand for compassion, not cruelty. It means raising our voices in defense of the Affordable Care Act, immigrants’ rights, our national parks and monuments, clean air, clean water, and everything else we care about that is threatened not just by Trump’s vicious, bullying twitter feed but by his clever cabinet appointees and his allies on Capitol Hill, who love love love that he is providing constant, highly distracting cover while they pursue their draconian agenda.

Stay in, people, for the long game.

imgres“There’s a part for you to play in the next great progressive comeback story,” Senator Al Franken writes in his new memoir, Al Franken: Giant of the Senate. “But only if you can keep from losing your mind or getting so discouraged that you quit before the comeback even begins.”

Politically, this summer is already about as un-pretty as my swollen foot on a 96-degree day in June. And as with my foot, there’s no going back.

“Do you ever just wish you hadn’t done it?” a friend asked me, as I crutched toward her. It was a remarkably intuitive remark, given that I have been wishing exactly that, frequently, as I face the reality that it’s going to be quite a while before I’m walking normally, or new-normally, after a surgery involving three incisions, one metal plate, two screws and six weeks of roller-carting. Sure I wish I hadn’t done it, because then I could be doing all the things I love to do in the summer: hop on a bike, hike up a mountain trail, jump in the lake. IMG_0079

I could be doing all those wonderful things this summer, that is. But what about ten years from now? Twenty years from now? The point is: I didn’t have this surgery for me, right now, age 60. I did it for me at 61, 65, 70, 80, God willing. This foot-rebuilding project is a crazy (and temporarily crazy-making) vote of confidence in my own future. I’m in this for the long game.

And if what we care about is not just getting rid of Trump but ensuring a better, more humane world for our children and grandchildren, then we have to stay in for the long game. We have to work our political muscles for more hopeful summers in the future.

IMG_2864As my booted foot and I bumble about, it cheers me to think of the march through downtown Seattle back in January. Hundreds of thousands of strong feet, filling the streets of Seattle, Washington DC, cities and towns all over the country.

I look forward to marching again. Meanwhile, I’ll do what I can.

Friends in Seattle and South King County: I’ll be reading at the Renton Library at 7:00 pm on July 26th. 

 

 

Stay Hungry

img_28372016 was a hungry, hungry year. Month after month, we hungered for justice and peace and hope, and we just kept getting hungrier. We thought November 8 might take the edge off; might give us a little encouraging broth for the journey. But no. Now we’re more famished than ever. And it’s very easy to feel like the best solution might be to simply curl up in a fetal position and hoard what little energy we have left.

But we can’t, can we? We owe it to ourselves, our children, our neighbors down the street and around the world, to stay hungry. To feel that driving bite in the gut, that ache, that howling growl that demands attention.

We are going to be offered pablum and junk food and we’ll be tempted to take it. We’ll be told to eat this, calm down, stop your bellyaching. But we can’t. We’ve got to stay hungry.

Yes, 2016 feels like the Worst Year Ever. But as one friend brooded on Facebook, what on earth makes us think 2017 is going to better?

Lest you think my only goal here is to write the most depressing post in Restless Nest history, I offer this morsel of optimism. Here’s what could be better about 2017, if we all stay hungry: this could be the year that we all do more than we ever have to make the world a better place. Instead of giving money to presidential candidates, we can give it to the people who are in the trenches, working against hate and for human rights; against climate change and for clean air, water and wilderness protection; against violence and for peace and reconciliation. Instead of talking about Nate Silver’s latest election prediction or Hillary Clinton’s email server or the latest egregious revelation about Donald Trump’s past, we can talk about what we can do, today, to protect vulnerable people and places and rights. We can volunteer to help immigrant children with homework, or help their parents gain citizenship. We can volunteer for medical research. We can rally. We can march. We can write letters and emails. We can support local and state politicians who are working for change. We can follow Senator Patty Murray’s lead and ask each other what we’re doing, not how we’re doing. Because we mostly know how we’re doing: we’re hungry. And we’re going to stay that way, for what could be quite a while.

img_2838Need some ideas of who to support? Here you go: ACLU, SPLC, Planned Parenthood, IRC, NOW, Emily’s List, LCV, NRDC, Sierra Club, Democracy Now, The Alzheimer’s Association, Seattle Globalist, Casa Latina, and Global Washington. Seattle-area friends: volunteer opportunities include Casa Latina, Refugee Women’s AllianceHorn of Africa Services (after-school tutoring) and the city’s Office of Immigrant and Refugee Affairs.

 

 

 

 

 

At the Edge of the World

img_2785            This is where I am: on the sandy, foamy, whitecapped edge of America. Last time I visited this beach, I wrote about the epidemic of earthquake fear then sweeping the Northwest, following the July 2015 publication of ­­­­­­­­Kathryn Schulz’s New Yorker article, “The Really Big One.” Maybe it’s just as well to be out on the wide-open Washington coast when the big one hits, I speculated. It would all be over pretty quick: one big, obliterating tidal wave. Boom.

And here I am again, feeling like the Big One did just hit us. It didn’t wipe us out. Yet. But it shook us to our core; challenged assumptions we’d held for months; changed the way we see ourselves and everyone else. Now we’re all rummaging through our psychic wreckage for salvageable scraps of energy, optimism, drive. We’re sorting useful anger from destructive anger. We’re demanding of ourselves that we learn to understand the people we quite recently referred to as Haters. We’re exhorting each other to eat, sleep, exercise, hug and read about a hundred articles a day.

I have been reading a lot, and I’m sure you have too. Here are a few post-election essays I’ve found really useful: Dame Magazine’s Don’t Tell Me to Calm Down, by Heather Wood Rudúlph ; Rebecca Solnit’s essay in The Guardian, Don’t Call Clinton a Weak Candidate, and, for when you’re ready to stop keening and take constructive action, New York Times’ columnist Nicholas Kristof’s A 12-Step Program for Responding to President-elect Trump.

But I’ve also been thinking often of Hillary Rodham Clinton, the human being. Not the superhuman political candidate, but Hillary. She’s too strong to need our pity. But what about empathy? What about taking a few minutes to think about what it must be like right now to be her? That’s what I’ve been pondering. I’m glad she has Bill and Chelsea; I’m glad she has dogs to walk, woodsy paths to walk on, grandchildren to cuddle up with. I’m glad she has time, although it must feel utterly strange to so suddenly have it. I’m sure time was really the last thing she expected to have right now.

On Wednesday night, Hillary gave us a brief public glimpse of what her life has been like since the Big One hit. Long before the election, she’d been invited to speak at a gala for the Children’s Defense Fund, the organization where she worked as a young law student. She admitted that she had been tempted to stay home. Instead, she showed up for her long-time mentor, Children’s Defense Fund founder Marian Wright Edelman, and gave an emotional speech about the need to protect vulnerable and nonwhite children from hate talk and hate crimes; about how all of us must “believe in our country, fight for our values and never give up.”  17clinton-master675

My hope for Hillary is that someday soon, she can have a good laugh at this crazy cosmic joke. I don’t mean that she—or we—will ever be able to laugh it off. The stakes are too high; vigilance must be our default mode. But the kind of laugh where you just howl loudly, saying to yourself something along the lines of —this is so insane!—that kind of laugh can be cathartic. It can actually break through the torpor and sadness and make it possible to eat some toast and start your day.

After all, the only way the Republicans could beat her was to run an evil clown instead of someone who could in any way be construed as her peer. For a while, we all thought it really might be some crazy joke. Until it wasn’t. But that doesn’t mean we can’t take a break from fundraising, organizing, marching, volunteering and vigilance and laugh, now and then, at the absurdity of it all.

Go for it, Hillary. You deserve it.

Want to send Hillary a card or letter? Here’s her address: PO Box 5256, New York, NY 10185. 

HBBfinalcoverA final note: Hillary Clinton and Tim Kaine were the only candidates who ever talked about the importance of funding Alzheimer’s research (which WAS on the agenda for the December legislative session, until Congress signaled its intent to wait on appropriations until March 31). Just another reason I’m grateful to her. 

#Election2016: Countdown

         img_2763   It has never, ever felt so good to seal and stamp an envelope as it did after I filled out my ballot last week. Sure, I miss the old ritual of going to my local polling place, but sitting down and getting it done at home, good and early, felt great. Especially this year.

Of course, especially this year.

And now I’m going to tell you a few of the people I voted for.

I voted for the third graders I tutor in an afterschool program. One of them told me last week he was “so scared Donald Trump was going to win.” The others all chimed in. “We’re scared too!” “I hate Trump!” All of them are from refugee families; most come from Somalia. I wondered what they’ve been hearing at home. Can you imagine how horrifying it is to watch this election unfold, if you’re a refugee from anywhere—but especially from a Muslim country?

I also voted for another refugee: Henry Grundstrom, my great-grandfather, who, according to his naturalization papers, “foreswore his allegiance to the Czar of Russia” to become a United States citizen in 1898. Henry was from Finland, then under the Czar’s thumb. If he had stayed, he would have faced conscription into the Czar’s army. What would he have thought of allegations that Russian hackers could be trying to influence this election?

I voted for Viktor Warila, my other Finnish great-grandfather, who staked a homestead claim in Montana in 1910 and raised six children on the windswept bench lands between Billings and Yellowstone.

I voted for Lydia Warila, his wife, who traveled west from Ellis Island with her name and destination pinned to her coat, because she spoke not a word of English.

I voted for my Scottish forebears, who built houses in the Carnation Valley and on Queen Anne Hill, and for my Swedish great-grandfather, who left his Minnesota home at 18 and headed to Alaska for the Yukon Gold Rush.

I voted for my elegant grandmother, an orphan, who gave herself a whole new name when she was a teenager, because in this country you can do that. Because do-overs are in our DNA here. Unless you are Native American or your ancestors were brought here against their will, your people, too, came here because they wanted—or needed—to become something new. Just like my Somali students’ parents. And here’s the part that is apparently very hard for some Trump supporters to understand: in this country, we allow do-overs that don’t rob you of your core identity. You’re allowed to keep your religion, customs and language. My grandparents grew up speaking Finnish at home and attended Finnish Lutheran churches. Many of the Somali students in my neighborhood are trilingual: they speak English at school, Somali at home and learn Arabic in their religious classes.

I also cast my ballot in honor of my mother, who would have been SO thrilled to vote for the first woman ever to be a major-party candidate for president.

And I voted for my college: Wellesley College, Hillary Clinton’s alma mater too, which has been educating women since fifty years before we could legally vote for president, and whose founders wanted the college to prepare women for “great conflicts” and “vast reforms in social life.”

For Hillary Clinton, Wellesley was just the beginning of a lifetime of preparation for great conflicts and vast reforms. And for her, and for every woman in America, this election is much, much more than an opportunity for symbolism. It’s our chance to say: the great conflicts we face are real. Vast reform is needed. We need a president who knows these truths, and is ready to get to work.

That’s who I voted for. Let the countdown begin.

 

Imperfectionism: a manifesto

images-3Here’s what gave me joy during the first presidential debate: Hillary Clinton’s smile. Sure, she might’ve practiced in front of the mirror, and I don’t fault her for that. As she told Donald Trump, she believes in preparing, both for the debates and for being president. But what her smile signaled so effectively was something else, something I would call her new imperfectionism. It’s no wonder she looked so joyful: if you’re Hillary Clinton, it must be a great relief to have moved beyond the futile grind of flat-out perfectionism. And I think we women can all learn from her.

I’m not arguing that she was not brilliant that night. She was. But her tone, her ease, and best of all that bemused, transcendent smile told me that not only is she confident and ready to govern, she is now beyond inured to the type of male posturing in which Donald Trump invests all of his strategic energy. This is an important trait in a first female president. It is one she has honed over the decades, especially as Secretary of State. While Trump has been sharpening his negotiating skills by belittling tenants, employees, contractors, and beauty pageant winners, Clinton has been steadily building her ability to hold her own with hard-to-handle men, from her husband to five-star generals to heads of state.

hillary-clinton-chocolate-chip-cookies-recipe-wewanthillary-the-world-of-hillary-clinton-2016Remember when she was first lady, and she baked those cookies just to show she could? That was perfectionist Hillary, responding to a media pile-on that was all about how uncomfortable the country was to find out that the new first lady intended to use her brain while residing in the White House. How great it must feel to not have to pull that kind of stunt anymore.

images-4I’m sure debating Donald Trump is not her idea of a fun gig. But what we saw Monday night is that Trump’s behavior is not so shocking to most women, including Hillary Clinton.

During the debate, my daughter texted from a bar in a mountain town that Trump was “giving her PTSD for every time she’d had a horrible demeaning argument with a man.” As her mother, it makes me sad to know that at 27, she’s already had that experience plenty of times. As a fellow female human being, my reaction is: of course she has, because she likes to talk about issues that matter, which means she is invariably going to feel that familiar frustration: the kind that simmers and bubbles as you get interrupted, talked over, put down, dismissed, patronized, ignored.

Men are allowed to be imperfect—temperamentally, intellectually, physically, behaviorally—by both their fellow men and by women. Women are not. It starts early, and it never ends. And one good thing that just might come out of the frenzied conversations of this election season is this: maybe we will finally embrace the beautiful reality of the imperfect female role model. The woman who is not both brilliant and a cookie-baker.

Men are also allowed to put on weight, wear strange orange comb-over hairdos, scowl, roll their eyes and mug for the camera, even as they criticize the appearance of a beauty pageant winner or the stamina of a former Secretary of State.

My own father thinks it’s OK to ask me questions like this one, over lunch a few weeks ago: “Do you think Hillary has put on weight?”

“Dad. I cannot believe you just said that,” I replied, or at least I think I did. How can I remember, when all my hot buttons were instantly on blood-red alert?

But Hillary’s debate smile is giving me a courageous new model. Hey, grown-up Ann, her smile tells me, don’t take the bait. Don’t sputter and turn red and instantly recall how fat you felt in college when you were binge-eating cereal out of the box. Instead, smile at your dad. Practice in front of a mirror. Give it that serene, Hillary-esque, “Wow, you’re old-fashioned, but I’m OK with that, because I have moved on with my own evolution!” kind of feel.

And that’s the new post-perfectionist Hillary Clinton. She knows she’s smart and strong and imperfect too. What a great role model for us all. images-5

Seattle friends and film-lovers: our new documentary, Zona Intangible, makes its festival debut at the Seattle Latino Film Festival this Saturday at 2pm at the Varsity Theatre. Join us! 

 

 

The Journals Project

IMG_2699 This may look like July 2016 to you, what with the political conventions, heat waves and all. But if you ask me where I am on any given afternoon, I might say 1994. Or 1992. Or, not too many weeks ago, 1978. It is the summer of the Journals Project: the season I re-read my hand-scrawled life, transcribing not all of it—that would be WAY too brutal a task—but some important scraps. Morsels.

I began keeping a journal when I was 13, so I have a lot of years to get through. The good news is that I did not (and do not) write every day. Sometimes I’ve skipped whole months, or more. But it’s taking me a while, because—sort of like eating Thanksgiving dinner—I can do it for no more than an hour or two at a time. There are only so many rich, nostalgia-laden bites a girl can take in one sitting. IMG_2697

My self-imposed assignment is to look for anything having to do with God, faith, loss of faith, doubt, mortality and/or the meaning of life. It’s research for my next book, known for now as The Observant Doubter. Me being me, there’s a generous sprinkling of all of the above.

In my very first volume, I wrote by candlelight, and used a fountain pen: a smudgy, spill-prone choice for left-handed me. But I can still remember the clink of the pen in the bottle, the scratchy sound of the nib, the smell of the ink.

In the beginning, I wrote a LOT about God. I had fallen hard for an Evangelical/ Episcopal version of Christianity that had arrived at my childhood church via a youth minister who radiated joy. I yearned to glow with the love of God, like he did.

But gradually, my fervent faith subsided, and other subjects took over. I gave up on fountain pens and switched to felt tips, so I could write faster. Guilt, always a theme for me, shifted from feeling guilty because I was a bad Christian to feeling guilty because I ate too much or I didn’t study enough to, eventually, that special Mt. Everest of guilt that young mothers climb every day: no matter what you do, you’re letting someone down. You’re not doing something well enough.

My transcriptions are peppered with “oy” in parantheses: shorthand for, Hey 2016 Me, can you believe how much time you spent berating yourself for your shortcomings? In 1976, 1980, 1992, whenever?

“It’s so agonizing, this business of being pulled in a thousand directions,” I wrote one January morning when my children were one and four. “I want to be a good mother. I want my life to have meaning; I wish I could find meaning in the minutiae of everyday life.”

Oy. How I wish I could go back and tell myself: STOP. News flash from the future: it’s gonna be OK. You are loving your children and living your life and you just happened to be born into a time when the neatly laid table of family life was upended and everyone—including you, your husband, your family, your workmates, neighbors and all those perfect preschool parents you felt you could never ever measure up to—began to scramble and squabble about how it should now be reorganized.

Wow, it was confusing. Wow, it was impossible to get it all right.

And now: a quarter century after I watched Bill Clinton’s inauguration with a toddler on my hip and a baby on the way, stunned and grateful that we now had someone in the White House who had invited Maya Angelou to write and read an inaugural poem, here we all are again, still squabbling over what life in America should look like. One candidate wants to take us back to… where, exactly? The mythic America of girdles and grills; of happy white people who have no neighbors who do not look like them?

The other candidate may have been born into some version of that world, but long ago, she boarded the outbound train into the bumpy future where most of us actually live. Where women are allowed to have aspirations, even if that’s going to complicate their family life. Where fathers and mothers want to find meaning in the world and meaning at home. Through all these turbulent years recorded in my messy pages, Hillary Clinton has been working away, miles ahead of me. Making her own mistakes. Learning from them. Moving on. Preparing herself to be, as President Obama put it, the best-prepared presidential candidate we have ever had. hillary-clinton-and-obama-obama-750x400

As I continue to slog through the journals, knowing that she has prevailed over all the crazy roadblocks life has put in her way helps me to see that we as a nation and we, as women, have made progress. And will make more progress. But we’ve got to get her elected. Don’t feel guilty about how much time you can or can’t give to the cause: just do something. Just show up. I’m doing it not just for me, now, but for me, then: that fervent teen. That overwhelmed young mom. The ever-scribbling seeker of meaning that I still am.

 

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